Time Has Told Me
by futurefilledwithrain
Summary: CROSSOVER: Doctor House and Detective Goren both find themselves confined to Mayfield Psychiatric Hospital suffering hallucinations. This is their story. Spoilers for seasons 1-5 of House, MD. & 2-7 of Law And Order:CI. CH 8 EDITED.
1. A Troubled Cure For A Troubled Mind

House/CI Crossover

For three weeks I was locked in the loony bin swallowing anti-psychotics by the handful and reluctantly pretending the staff psychiatrist wasn't a complete idiot. I was compliant. Compliant enough that Kutner shook his head in disbelief and Amber jeered at how Cuddy had finally gotten her revenge. The Vicodin was long gone from my system but my ghostly stalkers wouldn't leave.

Life on the psych ward was amazingly dull. As delusions went, Amber had become a bore. Kutner's occasional drop-ins hadn't led to any fires or explosions, a major disappointment. Mayfield attracted a less than stellar cast of shizoids and psychotics to distract me from the pain that the medical staff here undermedicated. I'd found no one to capture my interest. Until Goren showed up.

The first time I saw him was across the dayroom, a copy of "Crime And Punishment" in front of him. His elbows were on the table, his hair gripped by tight fists as he slightly rocked. It seemed he'd been having little success with his drugs, as well. Teeth clenched, he mumbled angrily. "No!" he finally called out. He glanced around awkwardly and put his head down. He closed his eyes.

Without looking away from "All My Children," Amber announced, "Cuckoo at two o 'clock. Could get interesting."

He crossed his arms and leaned back in his chair. His head continued shaking as his outburst escalated. "No, no, no, no, No, NO, NO!" He shouted at the empty chair in front of him and turned instantly to protect himself from the orderly who approached. "Don't touch me!" He screamed and pushed the man into a nearby table, two other patients falling to the ground. "You're all working for _her_!" He accused, pointing to the ground. More orderlies approached with a nurse to hold him down for an injection. He struggled fruitlessly. "Stop it," he moaned as they pulled him up. He tried to gain a footing before he drifted off, legs dragging down the hall as he was manhandled to his room.

"Cool!" I recognized the voice and turned to catch a grinning Kutner staring after the disappearing patient. He looked over at me. "If you're gonna spend time with the crazies, it's good there's at least one who isn't totally boring. This guy has possibilities, don't you think?"

I shrugged. I was bored enough to want to banter with my hallucinations but sane enough to realize why it would be a bad idea. I stared at Kutner -- a living, breathing Kutner I had created. Did God feel the same disbelief as he looked at all the idiosyncratic beings walking and talking and believing they were more than the product of his imagination? Did he wish he could make them all go away? I wanted to believe that when confronted by the most grotesque, cruel and perverse specimens of humanity, he'd sit back in awe and say, "Cool!"

A god created in my own likeness: there was a supreme being I could believe in. And much more interesting than the standard issue Omnipotents most people seemed to favor.

The real Kutner could have entertained me with sci-fi inspired riffs on possible gods and demons all afternoon. But my Kutner was a master of silence, a presence who reminded me of the puzzle I hadn't spotted, let alone solved. His stare challenged me, goaded me, insinuated there was an answer I had overlooked. It was maddening.

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**

The next time I saw Goren was at lunch, Kutner perched on the table beside him, closely observing. Goren stared at a spot next to me, chewing his bottom lip, oblivious to everything around him. "Ask him if she's here," Kutner suggested. "It could be fun."

I shook my head, content to watch unobserved from the next table.

Goren spoke quietly, his lips forming words distinctly. "He told her to leave his brother out of it," Kutner shouted back to me. I waved my hand to show I'd heard on my own. It was unsettling for Kutner to shout in the man's ear without provoking any response. I wanted to tell Kutner to leave the poor bastard alone but when had I ever let a respect for someone's privacy get in the way of my curiosity?

I moved to the table where Goren sat, head hanging. He buried his face in his palms and rubbed his temples. Sighing, he rested his chin on his palm and looked at the spot beside me. He glanced to the side and his expression changed suddenly as he realized our eyes had met. He stared at me momentarily before turning back to her. He looked surprised and glanced around. Apparently, she was gone. His eyes shifted back to me and we were staring at each other.

I looked around the room for my own doppelganger but Amber was nowhere in sight. "My cut-throat bitch seems to have taken the afternoon off. Yours?" I asked with the utmost seriousness.

He looked around, too. "She's gone away now. Could be back any minute, though." He took a drink of water. "She difficult to get rid of?"

"Mine?" I asked. Goren nodded. "Yeah. I killed her and she still hounds me on a daily basis. She won't stay dead."

He nodded casually, non-judgmental. "How'd you kill her?"

"Wilson says I pushed her in front of a bus with my name on it. Apparently the Angel of Death can't tell a beautiful young blonde woman from an old gray-haired cripple. Go figure."

He chuckled and raised an eyebrow, nodding. "Who's Wilson?"

"A combination Robin, Tonto and Lassie rolled into one. A devoted sidekick and faithful companion -- except when he bites." Kutner snorted.

"That would make you Batman, The Lone Ranger and little Timmy all rolled into one, wouldn't it?" He eyed me skeptically as if looking for a resemblance.

"Nope." I gestured to the other patients. "I'm sure they're around here somewhere, though."

He smiled. "He seems poorly matched for a sidekick," he observed. "You're The Odd Couple."

I looked at Kutner smirking on the sidelines and decided it was time to change the subject. "So tell me. What brings you to our little loony bin?" No one would mistake my feigned brightness for good cheer.

He shuffled uncomfortably. "It's a long story," he started. I watched him scratch his neck. His eyes wandered as he bit his lip again. He shrugged as if he was attempting to shake off his skin. There was hardly any comfort. "I've got my own beautiful blonde. She's exhausting."

"Tell me about her," I encouraged him. Somebody else's delusion -- anybody else's delusion -- had to be more stimulating than continued interaction with my own.

"For a minute there, you sounded almost like you cared!" Kutner commented, half-amazed and half-impressed. "It's a good look for you. I'd file that for future reference. You know, when you need to impersonate a compassionate doctor with a pleasing bedside manner."

"She's a serial killer," he curtly replied. "One of my obsessions."

"Oh oh!!" Kutner laughed. "You've got a live one here!"

I squinted at Goren. Somehow I'd thought there was a more personal connection behind the hallucination. "So, not someone you know personally?" Obsession was an interesting word.

"I knew her." He frowned. "The one that got away. Over and over again."

"Got away?"

"I'm a detective," he supplied. "Major case. New York City. Or I was, anyway. I'm not sure they'll take me back."

I nodded, wondering if it was all part of one grand delusion. "Female serial killers are kind of rare, aren't they?"

"Extremely. And fascinating. She was..." he trailed and chuckled. "She was sharp. Sharp as me. Smarter."

I wondered how smart he really was. Plenty of time to figure it out. At the moment, he was dropping interesting clues. "Was?" I asked. "I thought you said she got away?"

"She did. And someone else caught up to her. Killed her." He stared off across the room as he spoke. "I guess she wasn't immortal after all."

"Unquestionably dead ... and yet somehow still a problem?" I muttered. Kutner chuckled softly.

"I guess I don't take losing very well."

"Wow! Is he ever talking to the right guy! You two should start your own two-person support group. Obsessively-driven psychos are us! I wonder if his IQ is high enough to match wits with you on a regular basis? Maybe you've found a playmate, House!" Kutner's glee was irritating. Never mock a mocker.

I turned back to Goren wondering what else we had in common. "So is she your only imaginary friend or do you have other visitors your shrink finds questionable?"

"There's my brother. My father. My partner, but only since I got here. You?"

"One. He's sitting right next to you providing color commentary. Normally he's fairly quiet."

He smiled. "What's he like?"

"Total geek. Could speak Klingon fluently and treasured his collection of Star Wars action figures. He used to work for me."

Kutner looked insulted. "That's how you choose to describe me? Not 'brilliant with a naive charm' or 'tragically haunted by his past.' I'm hurt," he pouted.

"What do you do?" Goren had asked, talking right over Kutner. I shifted my attention back to him.

"I'm the head of Diagnostics at Princeton-Plainsboro Teaching Hospital. Or was last I checked...."

Again, he nodded, apparently his primary mode of communication. "It's difficult to tell whether they'll let you keep working. Which is absurd if you consider that they force you into treatment."

I thought of how I'd almost killed Chase, of how listening to Amber had led me to misdiagnose patients. For once, I wasn't fighting treatment. I just wished it were more effective. Three weeks had produced no improvement. I still couldn't trust my own brain, my own senses.

"Head of Diagnostics." He gestured around the room. "You must hate all of this."

"Psychiatry is a primitive science. When we come to understand the organic cause of abnormal behaviors, they get shifted away to other specialties. Psychiatry is the repository of all we don't understand about the brain -- and that treatment consists of throwing poorly-understood drugs at the problem and hoping it goes away without destroying other essential brain functions. Bad chemistry mixed together with quasi-religious faith in the healing power of words -- that's the best a shrink can offer. And I'm desperate enough to sign myself in and let them have a go at the only thing that means anything to me -- my brain -- because it's not working right anymore and I can't think of anything else to try." I paused. "Yeah. I hate all this."

I heard a loud clapping sound from across the room. Amber was walking towards me, mocking me with applause. "Really really hate it," I repeated.

"My mom spent her whole life in and out of therapy. Nothing much ever came of it. But I keep telling myself it was her stubbornness that made everything so difficult." He cleared his throat. "I agree. This is guesswork, not science. But it's fascinating."

I shrugged. "I'm not so fascinated," I admitted.

He smiled half a smile. "I'm more fascinated than I was before you started talking."

"I think he's flirting with you!" Amber's disapproval was clear.

"Cool!" Kutner grinned. "Are you gonna cheat on Wilson?"

"Will you two shut up?"

Goren seemed to understand that my comment was directed elsewhere. "She's back?" he asked, looking around.

"Yeah."

"Amazing what these anti-psychotics can't do for you."

I sighed, understanding, as I rubbed my thigh. The pain was creeping up again. "I used to believe in the power of the mind to cure itself." I waited for his nod to show he was following me. "And yet recognizing that Amber and Kutner are only products of my subconscious has done nothing to make them go away." I shook my head in disgust. "Talking to my shrink is consulting a witch doctor. We're looking for the magic words to make it all disappear."

Suddenly, Goren's sarcastic smirks and smiles were replaced by a grin of genuine understanding. Kutner winked at me.

Goren replied. "We come looking for magic and all we get is a posse of self-appointed authority figures and demeaning platitudes."

I couldn't help thinking of Tritter. "Since when do cops have a problem with authority figures?"

He laughed. "Most cops _are_ really respectful of titles and authority figures. It's like the military in that respect. That's how the game is played." He shook his head self-deprecatingly. "I'm a misfit. A loner. I question authority. I respect it when it's been earned but I'm not afraid to buck it when the situation calls for it." He reached for the water on his tray. He seemed to be searching for the words to continue. "I feel like I work alone, sometimes, which makes no sense if I think about it. I'm constantly brainstorming with my partner and she's always with me. Somehow by the time I get home, though, every accomplishment sort of feels like my own. Not that I disrespect her or consider her 'uninvolved.' Her approval is the one that counts. I feel like I've achieved something if I've pleased her. She's my authority. I miss her when she's not around."

Kutner gave me a quizzical look. "I wonder just how smart this guy is. It sounds like he uses his partner the way you use your team -- as a sounding board, mostly. Except, of course, for the part about considering anyone else your 'authority.'"

I ignored Kutner and focused on Goren instead. "When is she not around?" I wondered if there was more going on between him and his partner than departmental policy allowed.

"All the time right now." He shrugged. "She's my family. You get very attached to a person whose life is in your hands."

"Is that why you won't let us go, House?" Amber whispered in his ear. "Are you too attached to let us go?" She smiled tauntingly. "Did you miss us so much you had to resurrect us? That does play into your God complex rather nicely." She tapped her finger on her lip as she glanced at Kutner. "There would have been no reason for him to off himself if he'd known he'd just be stuck with you in death as he was in life."

"Assuming that _was_ really him -- which it isn't," I couldn't help saying.

I turned back to Goren, gesturing helplessly. "Sometimes she sucks me in. You understand. I'd be impressed at her ability to push all the right buttons if I didn't know she's only me in drag."

His head cocked to the side. "Who is she talking about?"

"The other one. And how he can't escape me -- even in death. They're both dead."

"Did you throw him under a bus?"

I pretended to laugh. "No. He threw himself under -- metaphorically speaking."

"You must've been close," he ventured cautiously, "for him to still be around. Were you?"

I shrugged and rubbed my thigh, which hurt like hell. Looking down at the tasteless remains of my untouched lunch, I realized I was done. "I need to move around," I said through clenched teeth as I pulled myself up to a standing position. Leaving the tray on the table, I headed for the door.


	2. Sympathy For The Devil

Chapter 2: Sympathy for the Devil

_Just as every cop is a criminal  
And all the sinners saints  
As heads is tails  
Just call me Lucifer  
Cause I'm in need of some restraint._

The courtyard was the size of a postage stamp and had two benches. I sat on one, trying to find a position where my leg hurt less. Amber was lazily jumping rope, otherwise silent. Kutner hadn't shown his face all day.

I jumped slightly as a hand rested on my shoulder. Goren was smiling down at me. "Alone?" he asked.

"Unfortunately, no. You?"

He nodded. "All day, thus far." He shrugged. "May I sit sit with you?" he asked.

"If you promise you're real, yes. The last thing I need is to pick up somebody's cast-off imaginary friend."

He sat beside me on the bench and crossed his legs. "I find the fastest way to tell whether I'm seeing the real thing or not is to touch it," he replied casually, relaxing back onto the bench.

I thought of Cuddy. I'd been certain I'd slept with her -- not something I wanted to try to explain to my new friend. I argued an easier point. "But you know the serial killer can't be real because she's dead -- just like Amber and Kutner. I've known all along they were hallucinations. There was no other reasonable explanation."

His head cocked and he smiled. "Maybe _I'm_ hallucinating _you_," he volunteered. "I suppose we could both be hallucinating each other. Do you wonder if my hallucination is any better than yours?"

"If I've made you up, then you're one of the most boring hallucinations I've ever had. And unless you're seeing me with clown makeup and a snake tongue, my guess is I'm not a very exciting delusion either."

He shrugged. "You're hit or miss."

"Just for the sake of argument, we could stipulate to the fact that we're both real and move on to our bona fide hallucinations -- without all the touching and stuff. I don't want you to feel cheap and tawdry in the morning."

"My meds are causing dreams that make me feel pretty cheap and tawdry every morning. If you were going to stay out of it, you should've told me that right after we met." He shrugged and pulled a cigarette and match out of his pocket. "Not that it would've stopped me. Want one?"

I should have figured a cop would know how to get around the rules. I took the cigarette and waited for a light. "I don't actually know your name," I pointed out as I thanked him. "Before we get in any deeper, we should probably clear that up. I'm House," I added, extending my hand.

"Bobby Goren," he replied, shaking. He struck another match and held it up for me.

I looked straight at him as I inhaled. "So, I haven't heard a good serial killer story in a while. Tell me more about this blond nemesis of yours and what she did to get you personally invested in bringing her down."

"I was enthralled with her. She was brilliant. She created elaborate puzzles for me to solve, planted enough evidence so I knew without doubt she was the one I was looking for. Over and over again. I'm addicted to the edge of madness."

"Interesting choice of words. I get the addiction to puzzles but addiction to living on the edge of madness? Not so much."

"I take chances I won't take when I'm all together," he admitted without apology. "My mind makes elaborate leaps. They call it paranoia. Sometimes I agree. Lately..." He frowned. "It gets dangerous when it goes unchecked. I knew that from dealing with my mother. I pushed it too far, my brain." Troubled, he chewed his fingernails and stared at a brick wall. "They think I'm something I'm not. Because I take risks. Risks that make me good at what I do. But I was better three years ago. Six years ago, even better. And still marginally insane."

The rhythmic sound of the jump rope came to an abrupt stop. "I'm getting chills," Amber called out, irony unmistakable. "It's almost like he knows you."

I ignored her, catching his eye instead and holding it as I laid it out for him. "You take risks no one else would consider and you save lives no one else could save. They applaud your success while they denounce your methods. As though taking chances isn't the basis of your success. The next hopeless case, they're back waiting for you to work your magic again. And when you do, they call you Lucifer...."

"Mm," he replied, nodding, smiling. "You're in need of some restraint."

I grinned. "And we find ourselves here...."

"So I suppose your sanity is also off-kilter?"

Amber cackled and I nodded reluctantly, looking down at the end of my cigarette. My leg hurt enough that I was tempted to put it out on my hand -- just for a distraction -- but I knew that would be considered a definite setback on the road to mental health.

"You alright?" he asked, leaning over.

"Bum leg." I gestured vaguely as I took a last drag from my cigarette and put it out on the concrete. Temptation avoided, I decided to change the subject. "Did she have a favorite method, your serial killer?"

"She liked syringes. Any poison she could get her hands on was sufficient. And she was crafty in the moment. She did whatever it took."

"The feminists would be disappointed in her succumbing to stereotype. A gun or knife would have been much more liberated. Did she break the glass ceiling on the number of victims at least?"

He sighed. "Officially, she never killed _anyone_."

I raised an eyebrow. "How imaginary is this imaginary friend of yours? Did she have a name?"

"Nicole Wallace." He cleared his throat. "Elizabeth Hitchens. Elizabeth Haynes. She killed twenty people. One was her daughter. There was plenty of reasonable doubt, though. Apparently. No convictions."

"Who was it who outwitted her in the end? You said someone killed her?"

"Declan Gage. Criminal Profiler. I met him when I was with Army CID. We were close."

"He must have thought he was doing you a favor...." I paused to appreciate the perversity of the situation. Somehow she'd turned the tables on him so effectively that her continued survival -- and continued career as a killer -- had become vital to his mental health. Bobby was shaping up to be an interesting puzzle. His references to his mother's mental issues intrigued me and I wanted to know more. Without a segue, I began gathering information for a differential: "What was your mother's diagnosis?" I wished I had a whiteboard.

"Schizophrenia," he quickly replied. "Do you have a diagnosis yet?"

I shook my head. "I've had more than one serious head injury. And I've been dependent on narcotics to manage chronic pain for years. We're still sorting it out. What about you?"

"Bipolar Disorder. No family history of mental illness?"

"None." I paused. "Tell me about these dreams you've been having. I could go for a little cheap and tawdry right about now -- and my meds have no porno side-effects whatsoever. I'm thinking of lodging a complaint."

He laughed heartily. "I'd recommend it if I didn't also have completely insane, terrifying dreams, as well."

An orderly whistled at the door. "Group!" he shouted.

"My favorite," Goren replied without enthusiasm.

When I'd arrived and was going through withdrawal, I'd refused to go to group. I'd kept refusing ever since. Until now, there hadn't been a single other patient I wanted to say good morning to. The thought of performing a psychological striptease for any of them was revolting. Until now. "Let's go," I said, getting up with difficulty. Getting around without a cane was a problem and I refused to accept the walker I'd been offered as a substitute.

He grabbed my arm to help steady me. "You're in my group?" he asked, surprised he'd missed something.

I grinned. "I'm supposed to be. Now that they've given up expecting me, it might be a good time to check it out."

"Maybe I'll get to hear all the things I don't know about you," he suggested.

"Doubtful. I was thinking we could shoot spitballs and pull someone's pigtails and get sent out to the hallway for general misbehavior."

Amber, who'd been unusually silent, suddenly snorted. "You _are_ cheating on Wilson! Kutner was right." As I made my way to the door, she called after me, "Amazing! Kutner's got that sixth sense about people _you_ used to have, House -- before you totally lost it." I heard her laugh as the door shut behind us.


	3. You're A Rare, Rare Find

"I'd offer you a drink but they frown on anything stronger than caffeine-free Dr. Pepper here." I waved him into my room ahead of me and gestured for him to sit on the bed. "Have you figured out a way to smuggle in some scotch along with the cigarettes?" I asked, moving the chair closer to the bed and sitting backwards on it.

He chuckled. "I'd be lying if I said that I didn't think about it constantly. It's counterproductive, though. I bet that'd be a nice way to spend the afternoon, though. Drunk in your room."

"I bet you say that to all the boys," I growled in my best Groucho style, surprised by the flutter of interest he evoked. I studied his face for a clue to his sexual orientation. Was Bobby straight, gay or bi? Bipolar disorder often went along with bisexuality or homosexuality, or so that was my understanding. I was ready to collect my own data.

"Not _all_ of them," he replied, raising an eyebrow. "I'm very specific in my preferences."

"I see," I said skeptically, trying to ignore the sudden rise in my heart rate. No one had ever fallen so easily into this kind of banter with me -- except Wilson -- and, despite all insinuations to the contrary, he was disappointingly and unswervingly straight. Bobby was walking a fairly narrow line between flirtation and self-mockery. I responded in kind. "Is it the limp that does it for you? Or do you require all your boyfriends to engage in mutual hallucinations?"

His lips were pursed as he studied my face for several seconds. "The limp I could take or leave. It's the...mind that I'm enjoying. I'd like to know more about it. You were...as quiet as I am. In group."

"Sorry, K-Mart shoppers. The blue light special doesn't extend to the secrets of my psyche. I'm not passing out samples of psychic pain to random bargain hunters on any given Thursday. The average person's experience or opinion is of no interest to me. The average person is a moron. That includes the average inmate of the psych ward. Given your IQ and mine, the law of averages leaves no room for anything but mental deficients in the rest of the group. Not only am I not sharing my angst with them, I don't see the point of sitting through a whiny recital of theirs."

"Mm," he replied, nodding. "I have a different opinion of things. Janet, for example." I shook my head to indicate that I'd already forgotten her. "The woman in the blue shirt, bipolar. When she talked about her experiences at work before they fired her...you know. Flying off the handle, fighting with her boss, embarrassing herself. And the whole inability to really remember what she did for weeks or sometimes months...those are things that, when someone experiences them...they know how horrifying it is to live in that wake. And we suspect that no one truly understands." He cleared his throat. "I can't share in group, but it does me good to listen to what she has to say."

"Let's see.... Flying off the handle, fighting with my boss, embarrassing myself (according to Wilson anyway) -- sounds like my life. And I'm not even bipolar. I have no excuse for being a bad boy."

"Evil genius?" he proposed.

"More a description than an excuse," I shrugged. "What about you? Are you the evil genius of the NYPD? The bad boy everyone loves to hate?"

He sighed. "Yes. No. Depends on who you ask."

"And if I asked your boss?"

"He'd say I'm difficult. Emotional. Obsessive."

"And let me guess that despite his complaints about your behavior, you continue to get the tough cases...."

"I'm on Major Case," he replied, matter-of-fact. "The tough cases are my job. But I'd be lying if I said he wasn't very tolerant of me."

"Sounds like we've each found the perfect gig. And yet we find ourselves languishing in the nuthouse. What's wrong with this picture?"

He glanced around the room, surveying intensely. Not just any answer would do, it seemed. "With exception to the aforementioned absence of alcohol, it seems pretty nice in here." He smiled.

I grinned. "There's a little matter of sex and drugs and rock and roll. With them, this dingy monastic cell would feel almost like home." I wondered how my new buddy would react to the list of my needs and wants -- and how closely his list would overlap with mine.

"Sex would be nice. Drugs I suppose I would enjoy," he agreed. "I like to be surrounded by books more than rock and roll. That's not to say I don't like it..." He trailed and eyed me for a few moments. After swallowing, he took a deep breath. "The only thing we genuinely can't get around here are the drugs," he ventured.

Something about Bobby Goren excited me on levels I hadn't felt in a long time. We stared at each other, unblinking for a moment before I cleared my throat and offered him some encouragement, eager to find out how far he was willing to go. "Sounds like you've been having more fun than I have," I pretended to pout. "Maybe I should make a point of hanging with you from now on. You seem to know how to get the most out of this experience."

"It could be even better..." he trailed and bit his lip.

"Tell me," I encouraged him. "What do you have in mind?" I licked my lips, hoping I wasn't misreading his intentions.

"Nothing that would keep us out of trouble around here." He continued to eye me steadily and wordlessly. "I have to warn you," he began, breaking the silence, "I'm difficult. Emotional. Obsessive. The captain's right about a lot of things."

It had been weeks since I'd gotten into trouble. I was overdue. "Difficult and obsessive, I've heard before. Outrageous, too. And, my all-time fave, immature. Interested?" I smirked.

He slid closer to me. Cautiously, he slipped his hand around my neck and ran his finger along the nape. He put his other hand on my shoulder; his fingers slid lightly down the length of my arm. At my hand, he threaded his fingers in mine and stood, pulling gently. I moved off the chair cooperatively. His breath was hot against my ear as he whispered: "What do you think?"

"I think..." I paused. I wasn't drunk or high. Amber and Kutner were nowhere to be seen. "I think I need to examine you a little more thoroughly to make sure you're not just a figment of my imagination," I squeezed the hand that was holding mine while my free hand traced his lower lip. "Feels real," I said, as though withholding final judgment.

"What would it take to prove it to you?" He asked. He brought my hand back to his mouth and brushed his lips across it.

"I can see you. I can hear you. I can feel you." I leaned in and sniffed in the vicinity of his neck. "I can smell you. Can I taste you?" I asked, my lips an inch away from his mouth. I waited for his answer.

It came in the form of a kiss at both corners of my mouth. He delicately took my bottom lip between his own and licked it slowly. The hair stood up on my neck. "That real?" he whispered. His lips brushed against mine as he spoke.

"If you're not real, I'd just as soon never find out," I said, closing my eyes. "If you're something I made up, then feel free to enact all my favorite fantasies. I give you free rein with my subconscious." I was enjoying letting Bobby take the lead. He hadn't disappointed me in the least.

He closed his eyes and shook his head, smiling. "I don't know your fantasies. I suppose mine will have to do for now," he said. Two steps and I found myself laying down on the bed. He laid beside me and tucked his arm between my own and my side. "They've been piling up since I met you." He propped himself up and leaned over to kiss me again.

"I love surprises," I told him, "With any luck, I've provoked some pretty twisted thoughts in that screwed-up brain of yours. Feel free to demonstrate all of them." The fact there was no lock on the door was like icing on the cake. And I love cake.


	4. Bent

_If I couldn't sleep could you sleep  
Could you paint me better off  
Could you sympathize with my needs  
I know you think I need a lot_

_I started out clean but I'm jaded  
Just phoning it in  
Just breaking the skin_

_Can you help me I'm bent  
I'm so scared that I'll never  
Get put back together_

_You're breaking me in  
And this is how we will end  
With you and me bent._

_«Bent", Matchbox 20_

Upon walking out of House's door, I ached in loneliness. Standing on line for meds, I stared at the floor and made no eye contact hoping to put the incident far enough out of my mind to avoid crying. As was typical for me, what should have me basking in joy left me prematurely mourning its passing. Princeton was an hour and a half from New York by car and over two hours by train. In line, a spark of excitement overcame me as I imagined waiting excitedly for him to arrive at Penn Station. I'd talk nervous nonsense to him about its history and he'd indulge me, perhaps even enjoy it. We could share a bottle of wine over Chinese take-out and talk about whatever he wanted. We could retire to my bed, the main culprit for my sadness every night before falling asleep. Alas, the object of sadness that evening was to be my doomed romance with Gregory House, if romance it truly was. Madness.

"Goren," the pharmacist called, snapping me back into the moment. "Meds," he said. I went to the window, dumped the pills into my mouth and pushed them between my cheeks and gums while the pharmacist checked my name off the list. He handed me a cup for water. I filled it at a nearby fountain and used the water to wash the pills out of my mouth and into the cup. No point sleeping artificially that evening, I decided, if I could cry myself into exhaustion.

"Pathetic," I mumbled to myself as I put the cup into a bin and made my way to my room.

If there were higher powers, they were kind to me and House. We weren't found out at that point, weren't ordered to separate, weren't told that we didn't need each other for our conditions to improve. I doubted that sincerely, but I expected it would be said sooner or later. A long history with mental health professionals led me to expect preemptive decisions about what constituted my "best interest," decisions I would be required to accept unquestioningly and adhere to faithfully.

Pondering our separation, I walked back to my room, dejected. Well before lights-out I found myself laying in bed, staring at the ceiling. My obsession with House took a stronger immediate hold on me than I anticipated. More than anything else - getting better, being distracted from everything by work, reading a book - I wanted to be back in his room, in his arms, talking quietly or sleeping peacefully. Absurd, such romantic notions. No one fell in love as quickly as I. Surely House was back in his room hardly thinking of what happened between us, what possibilities lay ahead. What cause would he have to think of me, I wondered?

There was no one with whom I could speak about matters of the heart. In the best case scenario, I could talk to Eames, but my emotions weren't her responsibility. Better to suffer alone in agony and doubt than to consult anyone. They could never understand. Things were much easier for everyone else. Or so it seemed.

I was back in Penn Station waiting on House. I fiddled with my keys and paced, unable to even ponder sitting with such levels of anticipation. How long it'd been since we'd seen each other last was a mystery to me. His hand fell on my shoulder. I turned and he kissed me immediately. Remarkable was the rush, the euphoria, feeling light-headed. "Back to your place. Now," he urged, nudging me in the direction of the door.

I led him to a cab. All the way to my place, we pawed at each other. He might as well have sat on top of me. "I missed you," he whispered in my ear.

"We talk every night," I reminded him.

"Which isn't...this," he complained.

Before I knew it, the sun was up, and I'd spent the entire night imagining different courses our evening would take after that point in our conversation. In the mirror, my eyes were red and puffy.

To feel is remarkable. Even when it feels so good it hurts.

********************************************

Playtime with my new friend was everything I thought it would be. He was intense, passionate, and evidently as obsessive about providing a good time in bed as he was about his work. I chuckled while I considered wrapping him up and taking him home with me.

I missed unwinding in front of the TV at night. I couldn't imagine facing hours of lonely sleeplessness in my cell so I downed my sleeping pill without complaint each night. After my afternoon with Bobby, I was more keyed up than ususal but at least Amber and Kutner stayed out of the way while I waited for the Ambien to kick in. I drifted off to thoughts of Bobby's fingers on my thigh.

I woke four hours later, unbelievably pumped up. The excitement of seeing Bobby again made it impossible to sleep, but it was well before the time I could leave my room. For awhile, I tried to read, but it was no use. He was in my head and he was difficult to get out.

Only Stacy had ever seen me in such a state, sitting at the edge of the bed like a child on Christmas Eve. I went to the barred window and lit Bobby's half-smoked cigarette. "You take the other half," he'd encouraged me, smiling. I'd taken it willingly and kissed him before he left.

Bobby continued to occupy my thoughts as I stared out the window over a dimly lit lawn. I knew so much and so little about him. He was impossible to read and should've been harder to get close to, but whatever trait made it easy for me to tell him so much must have been mutual.

Bobby could easily become my new addiction. I spent a considerable amount of time thinking about places throughout the hospital where we could play later that day. That I wanted his sexual passion and intellectual challenge didn't surprise me, but his emotional intensity excited me in ways I wouldn't have anticipated.

I wondered what he'd be like to live with, whether it could ever work on a practical level. A ridiculous thing to consider this early in the game. At the rate we were going in shaking our hallucinations, the only place we'd ever both be living was Mayfield. But, still, to have met someone who might know me intrinsically. It was what I'd always wanted and the reason why love had been impossible to find.

Bobby was a godsend if such a thing existed. He was one of a kind. Best to hold off on telling him that until one of us got out of here. He had potential. I was determined to make the best of it, even if it ended when we left. I needed what was happening. Caring for someone else felt good, and Bobby was the only person who'd made me feel that way in a long time.


	5. Stranger Things Have Happened

Chapter 5: Stranger Things Have Happened

_Goddamn this dusty room__  
__This hazy afternoon__  
__I'm breathing in this silence__  
__Like never before__  
__  
__This feeling that I get__  
__This one last cigarette__  
__As I lay awake__  
__And wait for you to come through the door__  
__  
__Oh maybe maybe maybe__  
__I can share it with you__  
__I behave I behave I behave__  
__So I can share it with you__  
__  
__You were not alone__  
__Dear loneliness__  
__You forgot__  
__But I remembered this__  
__Oh stranger stranger__  
__Stranger things have happened, I know__  
__  
__I'm not alone__  
__Dear loneliness__  
__I forgot__  
__That I remembered this__  
__Oh stranger stranger__  
__Stranger things have happened, I know__  
__  
_ A downward spiral. A day of regret and misunderstanding and self-doubt. A day of breathlessness and fluttering heart. A day of mourning. A day for forgiveness. No one to call. No one willing to forgive.

Just another day.

In my room I sat, staring at the wall, bouncing my leg and fidgeting with a pen. Stillness was a skill I hadn't then and certainly never would acquire. To move was to live. To learn was to live. And vice versa.

I wanted to think of him, of House, to concentrate on him and consider the impulsiveness and the subsequent magnificent agony to which I led myself. Ruins surrounded everywhere I roamed, not all for which I could be blamed. Accountability was futile, for instance, where Frank was concerned. My soul still ached for all of the wretched things I said to him in our last meeting. My heart stopped when I saw his lifeless body and broke completely when my better senses reminded me that Frank was not a man of sentiment; Frank, being who he was, would never have visited my mother's grave. He would never have left a photograph, an indication that our shattered bond hurt him, too. Not without a pay-off. It infuriated me persistently the way he proved he didn't care about his own son, about Donny, who was wandering the streets of New York City in a state of bipolar chaos. There I sat on the bed of an asylum longing to find Donny - - hoping he'd found some asylum of his own. I loved him instantly. My compassion for him would likely never be tainted. For as much as I could tell, Donny was nothing like his father. He was like me. He was hiding. And unless he wanted to, he was never to be found.

"Probably too much like you." Her voice was saccharin. Even in my own mind she was cold, callous, calculating. A piece of me. The piece that pushed Frank away. The piece that unwittingly signed his death warrant. She pretended to innocence, and though I knew she killed him, I often entertained the notion that that was the unadulterated truth. That I was ultimately responsible. Gage may as well have cut out my own heart when he cut out Nicole's. I needed a living, palpable culprit outside of myself to hold accountable for Frank. My denial of her death was profound. I needed her for so much. I loved her.

"Go away," I begged her. "We have nothing to say to each other."

"I beg to differ, Bobby." Sensory hallucinations abounded. She smelled of roses, perhaps a body cream: the scent wasn't overwhelming, not perfume. "You're right to blame yourself for Frank. You're every bit as responsible as I am."

"I didn't kill Frank." But I wasn't so sure.

"Right. And that's why you're here taking anti-psychotics, anti-depressants and mood stabilizers. And that's why, despite all of that, you still agonize over his death." I felt breath on my neck. The rose was beautiful. And lavender. I didn't catch the lavender at first. "Tell me, Bobby. How does it feel to answer the call of your heritage? How does it feel to push someone over the edge...metaphorically speaking?"

"I didn't kill him!" I shouted, stood and backed away from the bed. She was gone. House was at the door.

"Bobby? Are you O.K.?" He looked around the room and back at me, his eyes searching for any visual clues to my condition. His intensity was startling -- an amalgam of the personal and professional that suggested my well-being was a matter of concern.

I surveyed the room for traces of her, but even her scent had vaporized. Reason told me she knew as much as I - that my persistent reverie possessed an all-access pass with which to observe and torture me - but I hesitated to speak in her presence. I was entitled to my irrationality. After all, I was confined to an asylum. Breathing deep, satisfied the coast was clear, I addressed his concern. "I'm...fine." I loathed the pause necessary to coherently convey racing thoughts and required to contain rage and paranoia. "My beautiful blonde was...paying me a visit."

"It sounded like the two of you were having an argument." He took a step closer, his eyes sweeping the room. Another step brought him to my side. "Is she gone now?" he asked, placing his hand on my arm to steady me as his gaze locked on mine. I was hypnotized, staring into endless blue depths. I could lose myself there.

"She is." I took his other hand in mine, grateful for the interruption. Grateful that he was there at all. "It's a good thing you got here when you did. She was psychoanalyzing. She's phenomenal at it."

House snorted. "She's phenomenal at twisting you up like a pretzel and sounding psychologically profound while she's doing it. Would you expect anything less from the manipulative bitch?" He put his hand to his mouth in mock regret. "Sorry. I forgot. She may have been a serial killer, but she was _your _serial killer. You're still not over her."

She materialized beside him. "Are you going to let him talk about us like that?" I winced when she spoke. "He's got us all wrong. You're your own serial killer fantasy. Otherwise, what would you need me for?" She smiled. "Go on, Bobby. Ask him who the hell he thinks he is."

My eyes narrowed in response to the sting he inflicted. "What's that supposed to mean?"

"It means that you can't trust the psychological analysis of someone who has a vendetta against you, especially when she has access to all your deepest fears and harshest self-judgments." One hand cupped my face gently. "That's not objective analysis, however clever and persuasive she may sound. The degree of pain inflicted is not an indicator of the degree of truth. Sometimes it's inversely proportional." His eyes were calm, without anger or reproach, as soothing as his words.

Without reservation or any form of second thought, I pulled him closer and kissed him. He tasted of mint which poorly masked the organic taste of his mouth. It was my preference, his natural taste, found on his breath halfway through the day. To taste and smell his sweat again became an instant longing. We broke the kiss. "I missed you," I confessed.

"I could get used to this," House murmured, continuing to hold onto me, his face close to mine.

My heart thumped hard against my chest. "I'm already used to it."

"What have we here?" Frank's lanky frame appeared at the door and gradually approached as he spoke. "Finally found that soul mate you were holding out for? Mom always said that you'd keep throwing that away. Wind up alone. 'Perpetual bachelor', I believe she called you. Am I remembering correctly?"

Indeed, he was. She chided me relentlessly and despicably for everything I did and didn't do. 'You said he'd be here!' she was always screaming at me when Frank failed to turn up for her. I told him every time that she asked for him. If I could find him, of course. 'He's a good boy. You could spend more time with him.' It took a moment to realize I was staring at Frank.

House's voice called me back to the present. He'd brought his mouth close to my ear. "Who are you seeing?" he asked in a confidential whisper that told me he wanted inside my reality and was prepared to take my side.

I closed my eyes and whispered back. "My brother, Frank."

"You need to tell me about Frank, OK?" He nodded, brows raised, head cocked to the side waiting for me to copy him with an affirmative.

"This should be rich," Frank said as he sat down on the bed. He mocked me. "Mommy didn't love me as much as she loved Frank!" His voice was obnoxious. "You think maybe she didn't consider you well-matched with the rest of us? You know, with your dad and everything."

I closed my eyes. "He had...problems. Drugs. Homelessness. He was killed..." I took a breath and opened my eyes. "Nicole Wallace," I said, hoping I could leave it at that.

His eyes widened and he frowned. He rested his hands on my shoulder and spoke close to my ear again. "You're telling me that Nicole Wallace murdered your brother?" He pulled back to look at my face. "Was that early or late in the game?" he asked, looking puzzled.

"Just before she died," I began.

"Aren't you going to tell him? He's just going to keep asking." Frank stood and walked to me. "She died trying to save you, Bobby. Didn't she? Which means I died trying to save you. And you were finished with me."

"I could've treated him better," I admitted.

He rubbed my shoulders. "Let me guess. That's what he's telling you right now, isn't it? How badly you mistreated him, right?" House didn't seem particularly concerned by my failures as a brother. He continued to touch me affectionately. "Seems to me his real beef is with her. But since she wouldn't have any sense of guilt, playing with her would be no fun at all. Am I right?"

"Playing with her would be an exercise in futility, because each of them only exists now in my mind." Even discussing the state of my deficient brain felt wasteful. "I sincerely could've treated him better." I pulled away and sat down at the edge of my bed. "I told him...I never wanted to see him again. I was...frustrated, you know? His son Donny went missing and he couldn't..." I chuckled in exasperation. "He couldn't have cared less if he put effort into it! And Donny...he's a beautiful boy. And lost. Physically and emotionally lost. Frank...didn't want the responsibility of him. He figured that since he hadn't been in the boy's life up 'til then, that the boy wasn't really his problem. And so the next time I see Frank, he's dead. He died believing that I truly felt the things I screamed at him when I was out of my mind with rage."

House brought his mouth close to my ear. "Yes, you could have treated him better. But he could have treated you better and his son better and ... everybody who'd ever known him better. It's the nature of drug addicts." He paused and rested his head against mine for a moment. "You're right about the futility of your two hallucinations arguing with each other. But it's also futile for your subconscious to convict you of crimes against your brother based only on your guilty conscience. Where are the witnesses for the defense, your attorney, the judge?"

It was impossible to rationalize the irrational and yet that was what he was determined to accomplish. It was considerate and noble and, I suspected, out of character for him altogether. "It's easy for anyone who hasn't lain in bed all night denying irrefutable fact and genetic predisposition to rationalize."

He pulled away, a look of concentration suggesting he'd just gotten an idea. He grinned and patted me on the head. "O.K. I'll bite. I haven't lain awake all night. And I'll take your assessment as gospel truth." He turned away from me and limped back one step and then another. "You're right. You could have treated him better." He made a "so-what?" gesture. "Would that have saved his life? Made him happier when he couldn't get a fix? Turned him into a model father?"

"Who the hell is this guy to judge me like that? He's an addict, too, it's written all over his face!" He was right. It was obvious. "You lost _everything_, Bobby, and this asshole wants to minimize that. He wants to tell you you're justified for withholding sympathy from me. How many people have turned their backs on him, I wonder?"

I wondered, as well. Was I better than Frank for sitting in my apartment depressed and drinking most of the time? Was I better than House? What about my behavior gave me a right to treat Frank like any other junkie? If I wouldn't fight for him, no one would. He was either on the street or in a slum. He was my brother. He had problems.

"And what about you?" I asked, suddenly angry. "Why do you get to judge Frank? Who turned their back on you?"

House sounded equally angry as he answered impatiently, "Wilson cut a deal with a cop on a vendetta to put me away. He said I was a junkie." He took a deep breath. I could see he was struggling with painful memories but he didn't stop. "Wilson told me we were never friends after his girlfriend died. She was coming to take me home because I was too drunk to drive." He looked at me challengingly, daring me to argue with him. "If someone had killed me before we'd made it up, he'd have been just as tortured with remorse as you are now. But I survived and my faithful sidekick had time to return to my side, ready to kick me again the next time he thinks I've sunk to a new low. Does that qualify me to judge Frank now?" He paused. "Now, it's my turn to ask the questions. Why does Frank get to judge you?"

I looked at Frank. He shrugged. "I'm dead. How could I judge you?"

"Frank isn't judging me, I'm judging myself!" I shouted. "_Wilson_...Wilson's twisted life didn't sneak into your apartment, dose you and throw you out of a window." Vehemently, I shook my head and covered my eyes. Back and forth I rocked in the hopes of burning off pent up frustration. I attempted to continue as patiently as possible. "You're not like Frank. I can see that. You got your sidekick back, O.K.? Frank died alone. And now I'm alone."

"Yes, you are judging yourself -- unfairly and irrationally -- and often with the voice of your dead brother! We both know that. Let's examine your assumptions individually. First, you're a cop. The fact that a criminal decides to kill your brother is tragic and horrifying -- but not your fault. Your "twisted life" didn't kill your brother. A serial killer killed your brother. Second, even if you were on good terms with your brother, you wouldn't have been there to save him when he died. Not if your serial killer is as good as you say she is. And, clearly, she was as fiendishly clever as you say, because look at how successfully she managed to create a situation where you could torment yourself." He stepped towards me and put one arm out to grip mine. His voice dropped, "Third, you're only as alone as you want to be ,,, for as long as you want to be. I doubt your brother was ever there for you when you were alive. Too bad he won't leave you alone now that he's dead."

"Oh, Bobby..." The saccharin Nicole was laying in my bed staring at the ceiling. "You know, he's right. You _are_ only as alone as you want to be." She looked over at me, her big, bright eyes flirting with me. "It's about time I got into your bed." She giggled. "Anyway, you aren't alone. I'm here. Who else do you need?"

"House." I said it before I even noticed I'd spoken.

"Yeah?" he answered, confused. "Oh, you were talking to someone else," he suddenly realized. "Who was just talking and what did they say?"

"It was Nicole," I responded quickly, buying time to make something up for the latter half of his question.

"I'd already know his name," she pointed out to me. "I'm all short of lies on this one."

"You're useless," I mumbled to her. House stood before me, confused. "Not you," I assured him. He nodded. Unaware that I was swaying, my hands motioned with every word I spoke. "She...told me that I wasn't alone. She said I had her." The last sentence ran together as one word.

"How sweet! A serial killer of your very own." House rolled his eyes. "But, seriously, I'm thinking we should figure out how to send her back wherever she came from."

How fortunate. He failed to spot my non-answer. "You'll have an easier time forgetting him," she pointed out, interrupting my thoughts.

"You don't know what you're talking about!" I shouted at her. I moved toward the bed nearly forgetting House altogether. "Chemistry is what it is, Nicole. If anyone knows that, it's you and me, so don't give me that bullshit!"

She smiled. "Did I tell you that Frank was amazing in bed?"

My head burned in furious agony. I covered my mouth and stared at her.

"What? Trying to restrain yourself? Don't want to look any crazier for strangling a hallucination? Have you considered that perhaps you're fighting your natural urge to kill by refusing to do away with Frank and me?" Her eyebrows were high.

I folded my arms over my chest. "You leave my father out of this."

"Why? You've been thinking about it since you figured out who Mark Ford Brady really was. Piecing together bits of rage and how well you held yourself back. Wondering when you were finally going to snap."

I turned away from her and looked back at House. "I'm sorry," I said, shaking my head.

"Daddy issues, too! Geez, Bobby, we're just about a perfect match here. What are the odds?" He grinned at me, winner of a moonstruck lottery.

I took a seat on a chair and buried my eyes in the palms of my hands for a moment. _Daddy issues_. _You have no idea, House._ Fighting hard to swallow, I looked back up at him and rested my chin on my hand. "Your dad. I want to hear about him."

"Turns out the sonfabitch who raised me as 'Dear Old Dad' was genetically unrelated to me. When I confirmed the lab results, I wanted to throw a party. If you remember 'The Great Santini,' then you have some idea of what he was like --Dad the Marine -- but without the redeeming values."

I nodded. "The...sonofabitch who walked out on me wasn't my dad, as it turns out."

"And?" He looked at me expectantly.

I shook my head. "It's your turn. Tell me what he did to you."

He looked uncomfortable, reluctant to spell it out. "I'm pretty sure his idea of discipline wouldn't cut it with prisoners of war. Geneva Convention and all that.... And he didn't think I was worth much as a kid or as a man. I was an unending disappointment, wrong in every way. Does that tell you enough?" He was wincing unconsciously as he looked away.

I shrugged. "How much would _I_ have to tell _you_?"

"Whatever was relevant and necessary for me to get the picture. Have I given you enough to get the picture?"

"Mm," I replied with a nod. "My father was in the service. He was away a lot. A philanderer. My mother was...lonely. She...met someone." I chuckled. "Frank called him 'Uncle Mark' when I asked about him. I'm...the baby, you see. I couldn't remember who he was. He brought me toys, Frank said, visited." I shook my head. "I dunno. Anyway, Mark...took advantage of my mother. Beat her. Raped her. Mark Ford Brady," I said, assuming he knew the name. "My father." A test of House's sensitivity and understanding. Perhaps he'd pass. I hoped.

"When did you find out the truth about your father -- and your conception?" His troubled expression reflected concern rather than disgust.

"It was a deathbed confession...I...dragged it out of her."

"Your mother?" he clarified.

I nodded. "Is this a one-off thing we have?" I asked quickly, staring at the floor. The question was lurking in my mind and I needed, at least, to ask it. "Does it end when we're done here?" I looked up.

"I woke up at 2 a.m. trying to figure out how I could convince you to move in with me when we leave here. Insane, I know. So, I pulled myself together and decided I'd do the mature thing and wait at least a week before bringing it up to you." He grinned like the Cheshire Cat. "But since we're all mad here, I can see there was no need for the delay."

I rested my head on the wall, relieved. "Easier said than done," Nicole chimed in. I had to be rid of her somehow, to distract myself. The moment was as good as any.

I went to him and kissed him while I steered us toward the bed. He fell on top of me. "Wanna give Nicole a show?" I asked.

"You've already noticed my exhibitionist tendencies?" His eagerness exceeded anything I could reasonably expect.

I smiled. "I think it may actually be the only way she's leaving here."

"What? Two guys together not a turn-on for your stalker?" He breathed a chuckle against my ear.

I shrugged. "We didn't know each other that well. But it _is_ a turn on for me. And if I'm thinking of you..." I left the suggestion hanging.

"An interesting hypothesis. One I'd be happy to test extensively." He moaned as my hand stroked him through the fabric of his pants.

"Wonderful." I pulled his mouth to mine and kissed him again, reveling in his taste. Perhaps it wasn't meant to be a one-off thing in his mind and it certainly wasn't in mine. But moving in with him was hardly an option, and I didn't see him leaving his exotic post anytime soon.

We had to enjoy whatever time we had. And avoid getting caught.


	6. She's My Friend

Chapter 6: "She's My Best Friend"

_She's my best friend__  
__Certainly not the average girl__  
__She's my best friend__  
__Understands me when I'm fallin' down, down, down__  
__Oh it hurts to be that way__  
__Down, down, down__  
__Oh it hurts to know_

"She's My Best Friend" - Velvet Underground

Eames sat across from me in the day room. She wore a red, sleeveless shirt and navy blue slacks, still dressed for work having driven down as soon as she could. She yawned. "I appreciate you coming down, Eames, but you could've come next week."

She looked surprised but then tried for cheerful, "I _wanted_ to see you this week, Bobby. Tell me what's been going on."

I smiled at her. It _was_ nice to see a familiar face. "A lot, really. Getting better very gradually. Feeling better, I mean. It hasn't...stopped. I've had a few good days. The other patients are nice. How's work?"

She looked at me incredulously. "The other patients are nice?" She shook her head in disbelief. "What kind of drugs are you taking?"

Going down the list made everything seem less promising. "Asenapine, Citalopram, Depakote and Ambien. It's not as bad as it sounds, though," I added. "It's probably going to work."

"It's great you're feeling so optimistic," she suggested haltingly. "What do the doctors say?"

"They say I have a lot of work to do. Or they have a lot of work to do." I collected my thoughts. "They say _I_ have a lot of work to do. But what they mean is that _they_ have a lot of work to do." I shrugged. "I wouldn't be here if I was in denial about needing help, though. I just don't think the outside world is likely to fix this one."

------------------------

Wilson wore his trademark look of concern along with an expensive suit and Italian shoes. He stood out among the patients and visitors. _He _was slumming whereas _I_ was right where I belonged. I closed my eyes and Amber's voice cut into my thoughts like a razor. "Poor James! Visiting his best friend in the nuthouse. Pretending you still have a future, that you still have a job to go back to. I wonder how long he'll keep visiting before it gets too painful for him?"

He looked me up and down and surveyed the room. "I'd ask you how you're doing, but you'd only chastise me. I'm well, by the way."

I snorted. "You save me from both asking the questions and giving the answers. I don't even have to be here."

He nodded and shrugged. "Well, you are here." He studied me again. "Really, though, how are you?"

I looked over at Amber who smirked. "Tell him about your new boyfriend, House. You know you're dying to."

"I'm still seeing my imaginary friends so I'm guessing that makes me still batshit crazy."

He nodded. "Still Amber? Kutner?"

"Yeah. Mostly Amber." I gestured to my left. "She's right there. Except, of course, she's not. So, there's no point in you talking to her. You might end up as an inmate instead of a visitor."

I looked across the room to where Bobby was talking to Eames. He was smiling. He'd been in a good mood all day. I looked back at Wilson.

"Friend of yours?" he asked.

I rolled my eyes. "This isn't 'One Flew Over the Cuckoo's Nest,' you know. Most everyone here is boring and paranoid, a bad combo. No lovable quirky lunatics as far as I've seen. No Nurse Ratchetts, either, thankfully."

He rolled his eyes. "Well what is it, then? Useful? Worthless? Are you accomplishing anything?"

"Tsk, tsk. You seem a little impatient for progress, Jimmy. As my shrink is fond of telling me, it took me almost 50 years to reach this point. I'm not going to get better overnight. Of course, I'm afraid he may think anything short of 50 years for a cure is a triumph of sorts. He does have me worried."

He threw his arms up, surrendering. "Well, he's right. Maybe not 50 years, but I know it doesn't happen overnight. You think it won't happen at all?"

I shrugged. "I don't know. An actual diagnosis might help determine the prognosis. But I gather psychiatry doesn't work the same way as the rest of medicine. Prescribe first, diagnose afterwards."

He sighed. "Does any of this feel like it's doing you any good?"

"Why do you ask?"

He shook his head, disbelieving. "Because you're my friend and I care about you?"

----------

Eames leaned over to catch my eye. I was staring over her shoulder at House while we spoke. She knew all of my tells.

"Who is that?" she asked, looking behind her where House sat talking to his visitor.

"He's...a new friend." I looked back at her. "Nice guy. We really hit it off."

"What's he in for?" she asked, making no attempt to hide her curiosity as she observed him talking to his friend.

"Same thing I am. Sort of." I wasn't thinking as I looked at them again, catching the eye of House's friend. Nervously, I looked down. He looked young, handsome. He was well-dressed. Again I looked up and found him looking at me. House stared at him, glanced over at me and back at his friend. I gathered it was Wilson. They went back to talking. "He may have a physiological issue. Frontal lobe damage."

"Really? He's a striking guy. Not handsome exactly, but attractive." She looked back at me. "What does he do for a living?"

I considered her statement for a moment. "He's...a doctor." Mumbling and speaking faster than I meant, I went on. "He's handsome. I think he is, anyway."

She nodded. "He must be intelligent if he's a doctor. It's good you have someone to talk to here."

"He's a really nice guy." My lips were dry. I cleared my throat. "He's got an interesting perspective on the world."

----------------------

Wilson sighed and looked anywhere but my direction. "Your boring and paranoid friend is looking at me."

"Is he?" I looked lazily over at Bobby and his partner. "Probably thinks you look suspicious."

Wilson rolled his eyes at me. "You really don't know this guy?"

"I never said I didn't know him." It was fun razzing Wilson but I still hadn't decided how much to tell him about Bobby.

"So who is he?" He asked, suspicious he was taking bait.

"He's a cop. An NYPD detective, actually. He's in my therapy group."

He looked at me tentatively. "_You're_ going to therapy group," he stated, disbelieving.

He jumped on the news just as I thought he would, but I pretended not to hear. "He has some great stories about serial killers. Not at group, of course. That would be inappropriate," I shook my head disapprovingly.

"Serial killers? What kind of cop is this guy?"

"The kind that tracks down serial killers. I said that already."

"Why don't you tell him the truth? That you're shagging the guy?" Amber suddenly suggested. "He's your best friend. He'd want to know."

Wilson sighed. "So, let me get this straight. You're going to _group_. You meet a _cop_. You talk to him long enough to hear _stories_ -- plural -- about his work. Do I have all of that right?"

"See? He knows there's something up," Amber persisted. "Why don't you tell him?"

"Are these symptoms? Are you going to attempt a differential diagnosis?" I wasn't sure what I wanted from Wilson. I was too distracted by the thought of being with Bobby when visiting hours were over.

"Look...apply the same story to anyone else and it's perfectly normal behavior. For you, it's unusual. Which you know. So either you're getting better incredibly fast or...actually, I'm not sure what."

"Maybe it's a sign that I'm getting _worse_ incredibly fast?"

He shook his head. "I'm not sure you could get any worse."

I snorted. "Thanks for the vote of confidence, Wilson. I'm glad to know I have nowhere to go but up in your estimation."

-----------------

Eames nodded. "The friend who's visiting him is a handsome guy. I wonder if he's a doctor, too?"

"I gather it's his friend Wilson," I supplied readily. "I don't know if he's a doctor. From what I understand, he's kind of a jerk."

"Too bad. I was hoping I'd get an introduction to a cute single doctor out of this visit."

Curiosity was getting the better of me. Again I looked over at House and wondered what, if any, would be the repercussions for taking Eames over. They came up well short. "Wanna meet House?"

"That's your friend's name?" she asked, surprised. When I nodded, she gave me a bright smile. "Sure, that would be great," she agreed as she stood up to follow me across the room.

We went over to the table. I placed my hand on House's shoulder. "House? Sorry to interrupt, but my partner wanted to meet you. Alex Eames. Eames, Greg House."

House smiled at us. "Hi, Alex. This is my friend, Dr. James Wilson. James, this is Bobby Goren and Alex Eames, they're both detectives with the NYPD." Wilson shook my hand and Alex's. "Wanna sit down?" House's eyes told me the invitation was genuine.

I nodded. "Thanks. It's nice to meet you, James. House has told me a lot about you."

"Ah. I'm sure it's all embellished," Wilson replied.

We all sat down, Eames next to Wilson. "What's your medical specialty, Dr. Wilson?" she began.

"I'm an oncologist."

"Don't be modest, Jimmy," House nudged his friend with his elbow. He turned to us and in an ironical tone of voice expanded on Wilson's statement. "Wilson is the head of the Oncology Department at Princeton-Plainsboro Teaching Hospital. That means 90% of his patients die, which is kind of a downer. The cool thing is that 50% of them say thank you when he gives them their death sentences. I don't think 50% of my patients thank me when I've cured them and they're walking out the door."

Eames was uncharacteristically speechless.

I turned to James. "My mother died of lymphoma. She said it was better knowing what might happen next. Unpredictability bothered her."

He nodded. "A lot of people say that."

Eames looked pensive as she studied Wilson. "Does it get to you sometimes? Being in a field where the fatality rate is so high? How do you keep going day after day surrounded by so much pain and suffering and death?"

"You know, the suffering is really only in the beginning. Over time they're accepting and just want to live their lives to the fullest. It isn't as depressing as it seems."

"Anyway, who are you to talk about pain and suffering and death?" House jeered at Eames. "The Major Case Unit must see some of the ugliest cases of brutality and violent death anywhere. How do you drag yourself to those crime scenes every day?"

Eames still wasn't quite comfortable with House. I chimed in to help her out. "For my own part, it's challenging. Intellectually engaging. Eames?" I asked, encouraging her.

"I became a cop because I wanted to catch the bad guys and put them away. That hasn't really changed. The ugliness motivates me to fight back. But sometimes the darkness can feel too dark."

Wilson smiled. "Well, I admire what you do. Making the world better is much harder than making death _seem_ better. Which House seems to think is all _I_ really do."

Eames shot a glance in House's direction. "I'm guessing he likes to push your buttons. You must be pretty good at what you do or he wouldn't be so comfortable joking with you about it."

"Head of Oncology, he must be very good," I suggested.

"Oh, James is _very_ good," he winked at Eames. "At least, that's what the nurses say. I have no personal knowledge in that area, I assure you," he quickly added, with a reassuring look in my direction.

I fought a smile and looked over at Eames. Anxiously, I rested my elbows on the table and put my hands together in a fist, my chin resting on it. My leg was bouncing in anticipation. "Yeah," I said before I looked back at House, "Well, that's...not much of a surprise, really." I cleared my throat and looked back at Eames.

House's eyes twinkled as he continued to banter with me. "Why? Does James exude energy beams of unwavering heterosexuality? Or do I?"

"Well, I...think your interactions would look different. If you had a sexual history with James."

"Really? You think you'd be able to tell?" House asked skeptically.

We stared at each other for a few seconds. "Yeah." I nodded. "I could tell. I'm...trained to spot a lot of things that aren't obvious."

"That must mean your partner could tell, too." He was teasing or challenging me.

I wrapped my hand around the side of my neck and nodded. "Eames? Do they have a sexual history?"

She smiled. "I wouldn't have thought so..."

I held out my other hand. "There you have it. Either you don't have one, or you're really good at hiding it."

House grinned, "Oh, so it is possible to get something past you two ... if I were really good at hiding it. Good to know." He looked at Eames. "How good is he," gesturing at me, "at hiding things from you?"

Eames leaned back in her chair, arms crossed, studying House, considering all the angles. She answered slowly, "Well, that depends. He's hidden some really big things from me...but not without there being warning bells that something was up with him." She turned to me and relaxed, placing one arm on the table. "Normally, you try to keep your distance if you don't want me to know something's going on." She drummed her fingers on the table for a minute, staring at me. "Of course, if you were totally successful, I'd never have known." She turned back to her questioner. "After this conversation, I'm thinking you both bear watching pretty closely, Dr. House."

She turned to Wilson and tipped her head in House's direction. "I'm thinking your friend here might have a habit of getting himself into trouble. Am I right?"

Wilson snorted. "He's nothing but trouble. Keeps things interesting, though."

I looked up at the clock. "They're going to run everyone off in a few minutes."

Eames looked bemused as she muttered. "Nothing but trouble. What were the odds?"

Wilson chuckled. "Are you supposed to keep yours on a short leash, too?"

"I'm on standing orders from the captain to keep him on a choke collar," she explained to Wilson in a tone that mixed exasperation with distraction as she glared at me. Tapping her fingers, she admonished me as if I were a child, "You're supposed to be trying to get well, Bobby!"

"I _am_ trying to get well, Eames..." I trailed off. Rolling my eyes, I stood, my hand to my forehead.

Certainly, I expected her to catch onto the situation. Despite my best efforts, I was never good at keeping anything from her. She was my best friend. We were innately compatible and genuinely intimate. We lucked out when we were paired, and though she had second thoughts, I could never fault her for being wary of the idiosyncratic approach I took to work life in general. After all, she came back. I _did_ expect her support where friendships and relationships were concerned. Even if they were impulsive and maudlin. I'd have chuckled if I wasn't so furious; my impulsivity, maudlinness and fury only confirmed the accuracy of the bipolar diagnosis. "I should get back. Don't wanna miss Art Therapy."

"Is there anything you want me to bring you on my next visit?" Eames asked, frowning suspiciously as I edged away from the group. In my mind, I obsessed over her unwillingness to capitulate. 'She doesn't care about you. If she did, she'd accept you.' My own voice. And then the realization that Nicole and Frank were sitting at the edge of the room, she straddling his lap, his arms wrapped around her in the small of her back. Wispy blond hair, light pink lips, big brown eyes.

"She won't let you have anything, will she?" Nicole asked. Frank smiled.

"No, just..." I took a breath and turned away, then turned back acknowledging the formalities. "Thanks for coming," I spat, grinding my teeth.

"I'm jonesing for some Pop Tarts myself, if anybody wants to bring me some," House suggested with a meaningful look in Wilson's direction.

Wilson sighed. "I'll try to remember."

"James," I said, reaching out to shake his hand. "It was nice to meet you. Eames?" She raised her eyebrows. "Next week?" She nodded. "OK," I replied with a nod. I walked away as House was still saying his goodbyes.


	7. A Broken Heart's Education

Chapter 7: A Broken Heart's Education

There's no way that you'll  
Ever be the same again.  
Now you are a fool to fate  
Like it or not, like it or not  
There is no way you can escape

From a broken heart's education  
A broken heart's education

"Education" - Jump Little Children

"He's a lot more interesting than you'd expect your average lunatic to be," House quipped before he left the room.

I looked back at Eames and smiled. "Sorry about him," I apologized unnecessarily. "He doesn't see the point in being absorbed with social protocol."

She gave me a tense smile. "You must spend a lot of time apologizing for him then?"

I sighed. "Unfortunately so." I cleared my throat. "I wouldn't want a pretty girl to get the wrong impression about the company I keep."

"And what impression would that be?" Her expression was more serious than flirtatious, hinting at just how formidable Detective Alex Eames might be in a professional capacity. I found the thought strangely arousing.

I shrugged. "I'm not even sure I know."

"If it's any consolation, it feels like I spend half my life smoothing things over after Bobby's outbursts. He's brilliant but ... difficult."

I laughed, exasperated. "Sounds familiar." I considered the possibilities, spending time with someone who already had an understanding of how people like House could be. "D'ya wanna get a cup of coffee?" I asked. "I'm not in any big hurry to get home and I suspect you're as curious about House as I am about Bobby."

She nodded and that's how we ended up at a local diner, where Alex seemed to be operating in detective mode when it came to House. She asked about our friendship first -- and then our working relationship. I found myself divulging a good bit about myself in the process.

"I don't mean to say that he really interferes in my relationships. He just doesn't really know how to share the people he needs with other people. He wants their undivided attention. He considers them irreplaceable. He's addicted to reciprocal devotion."

Alex frowned. "He sounds a little obsessive. Has he been like that in other relationships?"

I nodded. "He's very much like that. He means well, though."

"Sounds like Bobby," she said, shaking her head. "Those two together may be more than either of them can handle. I hadn't anticipated this problem," she admitted.

"Well, I was surprised House befriended someone so quickly, but I doubt that would lead to any trouble. Not on House's part. Do you think your partner's likely to get involved in something that's against the rules?"

"I'm just thinking that neither of them is emotionally stable. Neither has a very firm hold on reality at the moment. Both are obsessive. A relationship seems like a bad idea at this point but I got the feeling that Bobby was already pretty intensely involved. I can't help being a little worried."

I sighed. "Well, I may sound crazy, but I don't think having a friend in a place like Mayfield could be such a bad thing. It's not an affair."

She raised an eyebrow. "And if it were?" I looked for some sign that she was kidding but she seemed completely serious. The idea of her partner with House didn't seem to surprise her. I, on the other hand, felt like I had suddenly entered the twilight zone.

"You can 't be serious!" I said in disbelief.

"Why?" she asked, as if my reaction were completely irrational. "House all but announced it himself. Did you not follow that part of the conversation?" She eyed me quizzically and I couldn't help feeling a bit defensive.

"What part of the conversation?"

She paused to consider before answering my question with a question of her own: "Why do you think House asked if Bobby could keep secrets from me? After discussing his possible gay relationship with you?"

"I don't know. It isn't exactly House's first non sequitur." I sipped my coffee, considering her point. "So is Bobby gay?"

"Is House?" she answered without skipping a beat.

"Not that I know of."

She shrugged. "Sometimes we don't know -- if our friend doesn't want us to know." We exchanged questioning looks and I let her continue. She seemed to be sifting through evidence as she might do in one of her investigations, laying out her position but open to a compelling counter-argument. "_I_ know that House is exactly the kind of guy that Bobby would go for. Did you see how the two of them couldn't keep their eyes off each other when they were sitting on opposite sides of the room?" She raised an eyebrow inquisitively, waiting for my observation.

I thought it over. She was right, but I couldn't wrap my head around the idea of House with a man . "They can't have known each other long though and House doesn't get close that easily."

"Really? Because Bobby's only been at Mayfield a week." Another pause as she looked away, considering what she'd seen during visiting hours. "Bobby's intense -- obsessive even. He obviously saw something in House that attracted him and went for it."

An unbelievable prospect. Almost. "House is obsessive, too."

She sighed. "If I'm right, I can't help wondering if it's divine intervention or some hellish irony that they've found each other. What do you think?" She looked worried and deeply interested in my assessment.

I shrugged. "I wish I knew." It seemed entirely probable once she communicated her considerations. "Maybe it's a sign that House is getting better. Does Bobby usually move so quickly?"

"I don't know if anything about this situation is anything like the usual." She suddenly seemed fascinated with the small circles her fingertip traced on the tabletop. I wanted to console her somehow.

I reached out and covered her hand. "What'd you see when House looked at Bobby? Could you tell anything by looking at him?"

"I thought they seemed drawn to each other. I thought I saw a spark. But you didn't notice anything unusual in how House related to Bobby?" She sounded unsure all of a sudden.

I thought it over. "Come to think of it, he wasn't nasty when Bobby talked about his mother. That was unusual."

She sniffed and her eyes widened a little. Apparently in her world, dying mothers were rarely the subject of mockery.

"House can be insensitive when it comes to death. He sees so much of it. And hasn't lost anyone he really loved. But he's driven to save lives. Not all bad."

"I thought you were the one who saw so much of it, Dr. Wilson. House made you sound like the Angel of Death!" She muted her challenge with humor but it was detectable. "And, yet, I doubt you're known for mocking people's dead mothers." She waited silently for an explanation. I wasn't sure I had one.

"Honestly. He isn't as bad as even he thinks." The doubt on her face made me think she might try to talk Bobby out of whatever was going on with him and House. "He's an acquired taste," I admitted.

"You two are close?" she asked.

I nodded hesitantly. "I'm kind of all he has."

"Should I worry about Bobby if I'm right and he and House are involved?" Here was the bottom line for Eames. She would protect her partner at all costs.

I took a deep breath. "House is pretty dedicated to anyone that doesn't betray him. So should _I_ worry about _House_?"

"Bobby's bipolar. Even at the best of times, he can be difficult to get along with, but he's a good man. If Bobby cares for House, he'll go to any lengths to protect him. He wouldn't hesitate to sacrifice himself for House."

I nodded. "I couldn't stop House pursuing this if I wanted to, regardless of the consequences."

"Ditto," she agreed. "Maybe it's enough that we keep an eye on them and be ready to pick up the pieces if something goes wrong." She laughed. "Of course, what could go wrong with a love affair between two men experiencing hallucinations and confined to a mental hospital? Wasn't there a Broadway show with that plot?" She put her head in her hands in mock horror, the smile never leaving her face.

I smiled. "It'd be really great if House found someone."

"He's been alone for a while then?" she asked, inviting me to fill in more details, probably hoping to set her mind at rest.

"He really has," I confessed, thinking over the Stacy situation. "He was with someone for a long time. She made some decisions against his wishes regarding a surgery for his leg. That was it for them. I think that, since then, he hasn't wanted to put himself in the situation to be disappointed again. To have to end another relationship that made him happy."

"If something is going on with the two of them, then I guess House is likely to be taking it seriously." She looked thoughtful. "They do seem to have a lot in common."

I smiled. "Maybe we can talk about something else, then? Like you?" I asked, hoping she didn't mind a little flirting.

We shared information back and forth about our jobs, our families, our marital history, where we lived. I heard some unbelievable stories about Bobby and cases that Alex had handled with him as her partner. He sounded impossible and impressive -- just like House.

Alex and I exchanged phone numbers and agreed to try to coordinate our visits for the time being so we could observe simultaneously and exchange information afterward. We decided that coming on the weekend was our best bet. I wondered whether there was a chance of turning our post-dinner debriefing into a date -- but I kept those thoughts to myself. I'd never dated anyone like Eames. She interested me. As we headed back to our cars, I couldn't help wondering if she ever used her handcuffs for recreational purposes.


	8. I Wish I Felt Nothing

Chapter 8: I Wish I Felt Nothing

_It's better 'cause nobody knows you__  
__When no one's your friend__  
__It's better 'cause nobody leaves you__  
__So you turned your back__  
__On a world that you could never have__  
__'Cause your heart's been cracked__  
__And everyone else's is goin' mad__  
__  
__But I hear voices__  
__And I see colors__  
__But I wish I felt nothing__  
__Then it might be easy for me__  
__Like it is for you_.

"I Wish I Felt Nothing" - Jakob Dylan

I was a few steps behind Bobby as we left our visitors. Although he hadn't invited me, I followed him to his room where I found him standing with his back to the door. I followed him in and called his name to get his attention.

"Bobby!" I shouted. Amber was waiting in Bobby's room, sitting on the window sill, swinging her feet, crossed at the ankle. She had a shit-eating grin on her face but she was blessedly silent.

His fingertips were massaging his temples. He turned to me and linked his fingers behind his head. He sighed. "Yeah?"

"Feeling a little tense?" I asked, moving closer to him. The pain in my leg had gotten worse on the way to Bobby's room. I went to the bed and sat on the edge. I patted the space beside me. "Come here. Show me where it hurts. Free massage." I paused. "With free Happy Ending. O.K., nothing but Happy Ending."

He sat down on the bed, leaned over and put his face in his hands. "It hurts everywhere. I can't hear over _them_," he growled, pointing to the corner of the room. "Everything is moving so fast I can't even think straight." He shook his head and looked up at me. "She doesn't trust me with you. Eames."

I looked over at him and frowned. "She just wants to protect you, right? Isn't that what partners do?" I asked, preferring not to make much out of anything Eames thought. Why Bobby was happily bogged down in the woman's opinion was beyond me.

"This isn't having my back, Greg. She's...telling me what to do. With my personal life. It's invasive. She's supposed to support me!" he shouted. "Shut up!" he shouted at the corner.

"So what? She knows about us. Were you planning to keep it a secret?" Amber continued to be silent but her grin continue to annoy me. Any minute I expected her to start harassing me.

He abruptly shouted at the corner. "I know! I don't want to hear anymore about it!" He looked at me. "No. I wasn't planning to keep it a secret. It wouldn't have even been possible."

"It must be that partner thing you two have going, right? She knows. And you know she knows.... Wilson is clueless, of course..."

"And what would Jimmy think about you and your new boyfriend, hmmm?" Amber cut in. "Seems maybe he didn't know about your sexual proclivities. Think he'll still want to sleep on your couch, House?"

I glared at her but bit my tongue.

"What?" he asked. "I can't hear. Nicole's going on and on about how Eames always gets in the way."

"She probably figures you can do a lot better than a serial killer and some lunatic you met in the nuthouse."

His eyes burned a hole into mine. "You don't know what she's thinking. You don't have a clue how she thinks. Don't pretend you understand this."

I held my breath for a minute before I replied. "You're right. I don't know anything about how Eames thinks. I don't know much about you, either."

"What?" he asked. "I don't care about you!" he shouted at the corner. "She thinks I miss her. She thinks I wanted her," he mumbled in my direction. "It was never what you thought! You were a game to me! A puzzle! Eames _never_ factored in," he shouted at his invisible tormentor. He stood up and walked to the window, as far from her as he could get. He covered his ears and stared out for a few seconds. "I don't _care_ what happened with Frank." He shook his head. "Eames isn't accepting this," Bobby said to me. "And maybe she's right." He turned back to look at me.

"That was a quick break-up," Amber snickered. "Here you are, outed to your best friend, and nothing to show for it. But what else would you expect?"

I closed my eyes and looked at the floor, reminding myself that Amber was just my own brain -- the self-loathing, self-doubting, self-destructive part. The same was probably true of Bobby but he was lost in the argument with his brother's killer.

"I really don't care about being disapproved of," I said, not moving from the bed. I wasn't sure I could walk. The pain in my thigh was agonizing. Amber was snickering. Bobby was scowling. The pressure was building and I would have given anything for a couple of vicodin. I tried to breathe slowly, tried to calm myself and ignore Amber's chuckling. Bobby was standing directly in front of her, practically touching her.

"_I_ care about _Eames_," he continued. "You're an idiot if you couldn't figure it out."

Amber guffawed. "Perfect. 'You're an idiot.' Are you going to take that from this loon? You're the one who gets to label everyone idiots and morons, not him." She could barely contain herself.

"If you were on the outside and Eames disapproved of someone you were dating, what would you do?" I argued. "Just give in? Or would you grow some balls and tell her where to stick it?"

"You're an idiot. He just gives in, obviously." Amber smirked.

"Shut up!" I yelled, sick of her goading me. I rubbed my leg, eyes closed, fearful that she was right and I'd misjudged Bobby.

"I'd argue with her, but that isn't what this is about!" he shouted. "This is too fast to be real. And it's too good to last. Better we separate as soon as possible."

"Better for whom?"

He shook his head and laughed. "And what do _you_ think's going to happen here? If we continue like this?" He glared at me, challenging me.

"I think the same thing I thought would happen before visiting hours. My intention is to stay with you." I was frustrated and confused. Batshit crazy should have been an instant disqualifier for starting a new relationship. Maybe if I weren't batshit crazy myself, I would have realized that.

He walked over to me and slumped down beside me on the bed. He tilted his head and looked in my face. "Don't you see it's not possible?" he asked. "Even if we wanted it? It ends badly. It does!"

I jumped up, despite the throbbing in my leg. "Even if we wanted it!" I ranted at him, unable to hold back my disgust or feelings. I took a step toward the door and cursed under my breath from the pain. "I didn't realize this could happen," I said coldly, turning back, buying time so Bobby wouldn't see just how weak I really was. I needed a damn cane. Even more, I needed a bottle of Vicodin. "I didn't realize you could predict the future," I hissed sarcastically. "If that's the case, why'd you start this in the first place? If you're so damned omniscient, why didn't you realize you'd have second thoughts? Or is this fun for you -- toying with people? Did you learn that from your serial killer girlfriend?"

He shook his head and looked away. "That's right. Blame everything on hallucinations and mental illness!" He looked back at me spitefully. He climbed from the bed. "Call me crazy," he said, approaching me slowly. "Pretend my experience with myself isn't real -- that I perceive myself as omniscient. I'm a nutjob, you know. It's protocol to be full of myself and certain of my imminent failures." He was within inches of my face. "Let's pretend I know nothing. Let's pretend _you're_ the omniscient one. How do you know this lasts? How do you know we're capable of making two hour commutes to be together? How do you know we aren't called into work whenever we want to be together?" He gave an exasperated chuckle. "I work over 60 hours a week because I _have_ to. How much do you work?" He put his hand on either side of my face and leaned in to kiss me. At the last second, he backed away. "I don't want to hurt us both because I lost you. I don't want to agonize for weeks, drinking and contemplating the overall futility of my existence, because I miss you. I don't want to lose my job because I couldn't think straight." He went back to the bed and sat. "I'm not _toying_ with you. If you believe that, you can go to hell."

"_You_ go to hell." I turned away from him, unwilling to admit that he was right about our impossible schedules, the likelihood that loneliness, frustration and failure would lead to self-destruction for both of us. I felt sick as I attempted to limp towards the door, unable to storm from the room as I would have liked. Pathetic really, the absurd exit I was forced to make. I stalked out.


	9. Basket Case

_I went to a shrink__  
__To analyze my dreams__  
__She says it's lack of sex__  
__That's bringing me down..._  
_  
__Sometimes I give myself the creeps__  
__Sometimes my mind plays tricks on me__  
__It all keeps adding up__  
__I think I'm cracking up__  
__Am I just paranoid?__  
__Or I'm just stoned_  
"Basket Case" - Green Day

For a little over two weeks, Bobby Goren went around with his face to the floor, refusing to look me in the eye. His unwavering "not-looking" told me just how obsessively he must be "not-thinking." I watched him with equal determination. Even while he shunned me, I distracted myself by studying his idiosyncrasies.

One day, we sat staring over lunch -- he at his sandwich and me at him -- when Bobby suddenly looked up and fixed his eyes directly on mine for several seconds before looking away again. For the rest of the week, I kept to my room, thinking. I carried out a differential in my head as I lay on my bed and tried to figure out what it all meant.

I couldn't understand my reactions to Goren. Given the similarities between a nuthouse and a prison, the sex made sense. The sudden intense emotional involvement didn't. The whole situation was outrageous. And I enjoyed it. Perversely.

I wondered if sharing a room with Bobby would make it easier to figure things out. His roommate had been discharged and the bed remained empty. I was in a private room. It might be a challenge to arrange a transfer to Bobby's room, but I was sure it could be done. It might even make my individual therapy sessions less boring if I figured out how to get my shrink to make it happen. With the right prompting, I was sure she could be convinced of the therapeutic benefits of my becoming Bobby's roommate.

I was prepared by the time I showed up for my next session with my shrink. I dangled my leg over the armrest as I relaxed into the chair. "Afternoon," I said.

She looked slightly amused and leaned back in her own chair. "Yes, it is. Afternoon," she acknowledged, dryly. "How are you doing this afternoon, Dr. House?"

I shrugged. "My leg hurts like hell," I supplied insignificantly. "Things appear O.K. otherwise."

She glanced down at the file in front of her. "Any change in the frequency of Amber and Kutner's appearances?" Her tone betrayed curiosity but no expectation of a change in either direction.

"They've been quieter," I admitted. "Not gone, though."

She nodded and glanced back at the folder. "And Dr. Wilson?" She looked up at me. "How was the last visit -- from your point of view?" Her tone invited me to share a confidence -- but not too eagerly. She usually held the empathetic psychiatrist schtick in check during our sessions. She tried to play it cool, even indulging in mild sarcasm occasionally.

She liked to ask about Wilson. "Things went fine," I supplied shortly. "I got to play self-destructive jerk and Wilson got to play caring friend. He left happy."

She raised an eyebrow. "You don't think Wilson cares about you?" Not exactly what I'd said, of course.

I considered it for a second. "He doesn't _approve_ of me."

I had her full attention now. "What is it about you that provokes his disapproval?"

"I'm selfish. I'm cynical. I hurt people intentionally." I thought about her for a moment. She was the type to think that gaining my trust was the best way to evoke some ridiculous 'breakthrough.' "He thinks I do anyway. I prefer to think of it as an unintentional byproduct. The way my mind works, it's hard to consider feelings as really all that important -- mine or anyone else's." She seemed to soften at the self-reference. I assumed she was buying it.

"So you find it difficult to consider other people's feelings and you end up hurting them? And that leads Wilson to disapprove of you?" As she restated what I'd just said, her brow furrowed with the effort of delving into my self-image and the mysteries of my relationship with Wilson. Of course, she wanted to draw me out. And I wanted something from her.

"That's exactly it," I replied, prepared to play along in pursuit of a larger goal.

"How does Wilson express his disapproval?" She looked like she was prepared to offer me all the empathy in the world if I wanted to unburden myself.

I wasn't sure what to give her. A little honesty wouldn't hurt. "He tells me I'm a jerk. A self-destructive jerk." It seemed a fair assessment.

"He sees you as self-destructive?" she prodded.

Time to look embarrassed as I admitted my list of failings. "Self destructive," I said, looking to the floor, "impulsive, bitter, self-loathing..." I trailed off. Self-revelation, even in the interests of manipulation and deceit, sucked.

"And how does Wilson see himself in relation to this self-destructive side of your personality, Dr. House?" She squinted a little, determined to see the inner workings of our dysfunctional relationship.

"As the enabler." I took a breath and considered the ramifications of letting her know too much. My purpose was to get Goren as my roommate, not open up new areas of my personal life for her to probe.

I wondered what it would take to get her to do what I wanted. And even if she agreed that asking Goren to be my roommate was a good idea, I couldn't predict his reaction. He was no longer completely ignoring me but we weren't interacting either. Whatever_ he_ wanted would be fine with me. All _I_ really wanted was a chance to study him more.

Story time, I decided. "I made a friend here," I volunteered.

She looked surprised. "Really? I'd like to hear more about that, Dr. House." There was some excitement in her voice. I could get her invested in this really quickly.

I shrugged to evidence some insecurity. "Well, I tried to make a friend. I keep...trying. To reach out," I added. She seemed genuinely intrigued. "I don't know what happened." I cleared my throat. "It's just got me thinking. Maybe I miss out on a lot?"

"You said you tried to make a friend but you don't know what happened? It would be helpful if you would share some of the details. If you think you may be missing out on social cues, perhaps we can learn something from the experience." So earnest and sincere on the surface. She was dying to hear the details.

"I don't think it's that." I shook my head and fought off a chuckle. "We really hit it off. I trust him. He even got me to go to group," I added, knowing group was her favorite prescription. I shook my head again. "I don't know what led to the argument. But I want this to work. Things are better with us now. But I know I've messed these things up before. And I want...I just want a chance to make it work," I said, sighing.

"So you became friendly with another patient? You came to trust him. The two of you had an argument but you've since gotten past it. You're willing to work at the relationship because you perceive this person as someone who brings value to your life?" I nodded along as she annoyingly repeated everything I just said. "Do you think your friend wants things to work out between you?" she asked, leaning forward with her elbows on the desk. Leaning in for the kill.

I nodded. "He seems open to the possibility."

"Would you be willing to tell me the name of your friend?" She looked at me hopefully. I expected her to bat her eyes any minute.

"Of course. Robert Goren."

She smiled. "You two actually have a lot in common. I would encourage you to get to know Mr. Goren better. You really are uniquely suited to offer each other emotional support -- in group and outside of it." She nodded approvingly.

I nodded and closed my eyes to avoid rolling them. "He's interesting. I guess I have a hard time getting close to people." I scanned my brain for the best psychobabble I could invent. "I'm an only child," I started. "I think that made it difficult to get close to people. I can't _live_ with other people. Or I've never learned to. I pushed away the only woman I ever loved enough to live with. Wilson lived with me for awhile and I pushed him away. I don't understand why this happens." I looked into her eyes, hoping she was following along, enchanted by her own god-like ability to get Gregory House to open up. Moron.

"How did you push Wilson away exactly?" She was taking notes now. We were onto something significant!

I shrugged. "I guess I was a difficult roommate. Immature. Playing pranks and..." I trailed off and shook my head. "Nonsense. I just...have no idea what I'm doing."

"Did you want to drive Wilson away? Consciously or unconsciously?" She waited pen poised for my assessment.

"I think part of me wanted to and part of me didn't."

"Explore with me for a minute why you would want to drive Wilson away. He's your best friend. You enjoy spending time with him. What would be the downside of having him live with you?" Shrinks lived for moments like these. Meaningful self-revelation under their guidance. I hated encouraging her but it seemed a necessary evil.

"I guess..." I began, inserting the pauses for dramatic effect, "I guess it's just that...I don't want anyone close. Not close enough to know me the way...not close enough to really _know_ me."

"If they really knew you, Dr. House, what would happen?"

I stopped to consider her question. It wasn't one that I had anticipated. I finally replied with the first answer that came to mind. "They wouldn't like me at all."

"Living with you is the key to discovering what it is that makes Greg House ultimately unlikable? Or unlovable? Have I got that right?"

I nodded quickly. "Exactly."

"And you realize that the inability to maintain close and intimate contact with another person is one of the reasons you're here, is that right, Dr. House? You haven't learned how to share space with someone you like -- or love?" There it was. Empathy and self-congratulation all rolled into one. I'd achieved a painful breakthrough under her tutelage.

I took a deep breath and laid it on thick. "It is right. I do know that. But I can't learn how to do that. Certainly not here. Who would I live with? The only person I like is Robert Goren and I'd just ruin another friendship in close quarters. I don't see it happening."

"Perhaps you create the behavior that drives people away in order to protect your self-fulfilling prophecies? I'm not convinced that you and Robert Goren couldn't be roommates and friends if you both had an interest in achieving that outcome."

Excellent. "I dunno," I said with a shrug. "I'm not confident you're correct."

"It might be worthwhile to find out -- if it can be arranged," she smirked. Bingo!

I sighed. "Whatever you think is best," I said.

"I'll check into Robert Goren's rooming situation and get back to you. In the meantime, perhaps you can think about what kinds of issues might arise with a roommate so we can try to be proactive."

I stopped listening as she started talking about being considerate of others, respectful and sensitive. I started wondering what Bobby would say when he found out I was going to be moved into his room for therapeutic reasons. I suspected indifference or veiled suspicion, but not refusal or disappointment. Someone like Robert Goren, I figured, makes eye contact because he's interested. Someone like Robert Goren forgives. Obviously, someone like Robert Goren possesses enough passion to meet my own, a rare quality. But he was sensitive, emotionally delicate, and quick to fall in love. I, on the other hand, wasn't. I was anxious to study him and understand what happened between us. Though I wasn't after anything more than pieces of the puzzle, I wondered whether we'd reconnect. Or if we already had.


	10. Keep It A Mystery

Keep it a mystery, don't let it drift  
It's like the ocean, it's nature's dark gift  
A common addiction couldn't be like this  
It's strangely compelling and I can't resist  
Daylight's coming and shadows are gone  
Keep it a mystery 'till night's coming on.

"Keep It A Mystery" - Elton John

"Would having Greg House as a roommate be agreeable to you?" Dr. Buckley had asked while I was in our session. Being in the same room with House had become entirely embarrassing. I could hardly look at him without thinking of the absurd overreaction I'd had to our quick friendship and yet I couldn't stop thinking about him while we were apart. I obsessed over my folly and thought of nothing but how to make it up to him. I doubted that the relationship continuing as it had begun was the best route for us to take, but in my loneliness I wondered if it was a possibility. I was lonely and - without question - that was the reason I'd gotten so far ahead of myself. Why House had gone so far so quickly I couldn't rationalize. I suspected he was as lonely as I was. Perhaps more so.

Absent minded, I walked thoughtfully back to my room, but arrive at House's door with little recollection of the path I'd taken. I needed to see him, I assumed, or I never would've made it there. I knocked lightly on the opened door. House was seated on the edge of the bed.

"Come in," he called. He was fiddling with his iPod and didn't look up.

I went into his room, leaned against the wall with arms folded and waited.

When he glanced up a moment later, he looked shocked to see me but quickly tried to hide it. He removed the ear buds and raised an eyebrow. "To what do I owe the honor?" he asked with ironic amusement.

I rubbed my neck and looked down at the floor. 'What are you doing?' I kept thinking over and over. "I, umm...just discovered that I'm getting a new roommate." I looked up at him to study his reaction. "You are he."

He grinned. "You don't say?"

There he sat, evidently pleased with himself. He'd arranged it. Why? "I do," I said with a nod. "I'm not sure I understand it, though. You've got this nice private room. Check bounce?" I asked smartly.

He laughed. "I believe there were therapeutic reasons for the change. Although I'm sure Wilson will appreciate the smaller monthly tab."

"Therapeutic reasons," I repeated as I was compulsively prone to do. "She must've given you specifics about what the exercise is meant to accomplish," I suggested, shifting my weight.

"It's meant to prove to me that I'm not incapable of living with someone else without alienating them entirely. Since I mentioned you and I had become friends, she singled you out as the guinea pig for this experiment. Just as I'd hoped." He smiled uncertainly.

It was an interesting game he was playing if it was, indeed, a game. My work made it easy for me to deal with such situations, even with people as smart as he. I walked over to him and stood in front of him, prepared to interrogate him the same way I might any suspect. Crossing my arms, I put my hand over my mouth and considered what to ask. I pulled my hand down after a moment. "Now...why would you...want to room with me? After everything that's happened? After...after our last interaction?"

"Why wouldn't I?" he grinned, patting the space beside him on the bed.

"What do you stand to gain from this?" I asked directly. I was certain he'd appreciate a straightforward question. Instead of sitting, I backed up a few steps.

"You're the detective. What do you think?" he asked, posing a riddle.

I contemplated my next move. Whether the interrogation should continue, I wasn't certain. It was a game, no doubt, but against whom was he playing? I walked over to the bed and sat beside him. "I wasn't aware I was supposed to be observing you as a suspect," I replied.

"Purely a person of interest. A puzzle in my own right." He looked at me skeptically. "Don't tell me you only consider motives in your suspects. I don't believe it."

I nodded, content to acknowledge the truth in his observation. "Fine." I frowned. "I don't know what to think." I hoped the response was acceptable. It was the truth.

"You're as much a puzzle to me as I am to you. And I'm in desperate need of a puzzle right at the present moment, so you're it."

His answer annoyed me inexplicably. It wasn't what I wanted to hear. I _was_ just a puzzle, a game. "And if I'm not that interested in putting together pieces of you?" I asked with a hint of disgust, impossible to hide.

"I am deeply interested in putting together the pieces of you. That will do for me just fine." He looked unrattled, calm, confident.

_Deeply interested_. Interesting in itself. I nodded. "Anything else that you, umm, want to put together?" I asked suggestively.

He nodded. "Yeah, but I wasn't counting on it." He treated me to another smile, more relaxed, and a stare that underscored his interest.

I managed to continue not to smile. I tilted my head to the side. "You should show me what you had in mind," I replied.

"I'm saving it for my roomie," he smirked. "I was told I should be more interested in pleasing the other person, more sensitive to his needs, if I want a successful roommate relationship. Does that sound right to you?" he asked, smiling broadly.

I shook my head. "Not really. I've found that you're quite interested in _pleasing_ others and quite sensitive to _needs_." I shrugged. "I may have to go back to my room and think about this at least a few times before bed."

He laughed. "With any luck, I'll have a chance to practice my roommate-pleasing skills before bedtime. If the move is a definite thing...."

I smiled. "And why not practice now while you have a guinea pig, as you so succinctly put it?"

"I'm guessing that the deal would be off if they found us in a compromising position when they show up to move my stuff," he suggested regretfully.

I raised an eyebrow. "So you're moving in today?" I asked.

"Actually, I wasn't sure it was happening at all. Not definitely. But from what you said, it seems like it's a go."

I slid my hand over and put it on his thigh. "I look forward to not being bored tonight." I stood up and walked to the door. "You're already making progress," I said, turning around. "I don't feel the least bit alienated." I turned and left.

Halfway back to the room I started to wonder where the animosity had gone. It was nice to have him back, though. Whether or not it made sense.


	11. Secrets

In the back  
In the closets of your mind  
That's where skeletons and dirty secrets hide  
And I'll rip out my insides  
And leave them on display for you tonight

Cause everybody wants to hide their secrets away  
Nobody wants to stand up to the pain  
But I will...

Stand up to the pain  
Wake up and fight again

-"Secrets", Good Charlotte

The bed was narrow, making it hard not to cuddle without somebody falling off, but we managed. I wished I had a cigarette or a vicodin -- or both. I wasn't going to let things get out of hand this time between us. "So this roommate thing," I began, "I've heard it's a good idea to be honest about your likes and dislikes...."

He chuckled. "I certainly like this," he said as he ran his fingertips up and down my arm. "I'm also pretty neat and clean. Military and all of that."

"Did the military have any other effect on your personality?" I asked suspiciously. I didn't want to be surprised by anything in Bobby that might remind me of my "father."

He shook his head. "Not my personality. My intellect, sure. But the military was a gateway to intelligence. I wouldn't be where I am today without it. I was always intellectually curious. I just met people that molded me. Declan Gage foremost."

"But all the military bullshit, didn't it bother you to have to put up with all of it?"

"Not really. I knew what I was getting into and - as long as the people who were leading were qualified to do so - I took no issue with compliance. The military isn't the NYPD. Most people that are promoted to positions of leadership in the military are well qualified to lead. Though there's no denying the corruption. I guess that since I never had issues with my commanding officers, I never had a problem following their orders. The experience built my character. I loved it."

"How did it build your character precisely?" I'd never known anyone to use that formulation about themselves. It was hard for me to believe he was sincere.

"It was where I learned to use my intuition to my advantage, where I learned to read people. The experience sharpened the way I thought, the way I presented, the way I acted. I'm more precise in everything - including the way I think - because I possess a strong sense of self. I learned who I was in the military. I broadened my horizons. I'm better at everything I do because of the experience. It's not for everyone."

I snorted. "You've got _that_ right." I let my hand rest on his stomach. "It's funny that you found _in_ the military exactly what I found by staying out. By not letting my Dad define who I should be, I developed a strong sense of self. The more I developed my intellect, the more of a failure I became in his eyes, the more unsuitable as a potential Marine. I guess you could say the military had the same impact on me it did on you -- except in reverse and at once removed."

"I never really had a father as a child. I met him in the Army. He never found me unsuitable, though. He disappointed me, all the same." He cleared his throat.

"Good reason not to ever be a father. No need to pass on the disappointment." My leg was bothering me more every minute. "A cigarette would be great right around now," I hinted.

He got out of the bed, turned on a lamp and went to the window. After cracking it, he sat in the chair beside it and lit a cigarette. "Come on over," he said, gesturing to the chair beside him.

I hobbled over and gratefully took the chair and the cigarette. I inhaled and pondered the puzzle that was Bobby Goren. I leaned forward and blew the smoke out the window, passing the cigarette back to Bobby. I let my hand drop to rest on his leg as I asked the question that had intrigued me since our last real talk. "How did it change you -- finding out that your Dad was who he was -- and not who you thought he was?"

He took a drag off of the cigarette and held it in his hand, staring insecurely at a manufactured travesty of art on the wall over his bed. He thought intensely. I could see that the answer was difficult to pin down. "Certain types of upbringings breed serial killers. Did you know that?"

I shook my head. My reading on serial killers had been negligible. "Tell me about it," I encouraged him, taking the cigarette from his fingers.

He nodded, still staring at the painting. He put his fingers to his mouth, seeming to hold the words back. "Yeah," he said as he put his arm down on the armrest. "They come from broken homes. They have...absent fathers. They're very charming, very charismatic. Soon after I met Declan Gage, he profiled me. Told me that I could've gone either way. But that it was my passion for my mother, my determination to protect her, that hampered me. I had...have...a strong disgust for men who prey on vulnerable women. Men who...abandon wives...children. Serial killers and rapists...that's what they do. Overpower the weak. He was crazy, but Declan Gage was a genius." He took the cigarette from me and took another drag, handing it back. "I was devastated when I discovered Mark Ford Brady could've been my father. And not surprised when I understood that he was." He cleared his throat again. "He was part of what made me who I am. I inherited his charisma and charm. I inherited his passion. But I applied it to something else." He shook his head. "I could've gone either way."

I thought of how he'd seduced me. He was his father's son in that respect. It was easy to see how potentially lethal a man like Bobby Goren could be. Charisma and charm and passion -- I would have sworn I was invulnerable, particularly to a man. "How convinced are you that you'll never be lured to the Dark Side? Do you worry that something could still trigger you to go the other way?" I asked.

He pursed his lips and shook his head. "No. It was just devastating to know the truth in what Gage told me. To really understand why I'm a natural when it comes to profiling, to getting into the heads of these men." He looked over at me again. "My reality is more disturbing than I ever knew it was. I overcame that without _really_ knowing how close I came to being a monster."

"What does she say to you? The Nicole Wallace who lives in your brain," I asked, abruptly changing the subject.

"About what?" he asked. "About how I'm just like she was?"

"Is that what she says?" It's what I would have guessed. Despite what Bobby had just told me, on some level he must be ashamed of his natural ability to think like these "monsters," as he'd called them. A monster by nature made human by nurture, not a comfortable self-image for an NYPD detective surrounded by the bodies of his fellow monsters' victims.

He nodded. "Yeah, she says that. It's not...true. But my rage...there's potential to make it true. I haven't fought that so hard in my life as in the past three years. But I wouldn't." He looked away and back quickly. "What about your mother? You haven't told me anything about her."

"My mother refuses to see what she doesn't want to see. She loves me. But she loved her husband more. In her world, there was nothing odd about playing the doting mother when her husband was away while supporting him in his opinions and disciplinary methods when he was around. Since in his opinion I was worthless, I never figured out how to reconcile the contradiction." I wasn't sure I'd ever stated the case against her out loud before, not even to my shrink.

"Did she support his methods while he was away?"

"She made excuses for him, told me everything that happened to me was my fault for not trying harder to meet his standards. No matter what he said or did, she insisted that he only treated me the way he did out of love. In fact, she'd still say that, even though he's dead and it's pointless to keep up the charade any longer."

He took the cigarette for another drag and handed it back over. "It's amazing the torture people inflict out of love."

"I wouldn't know. I'm sure the love my father is supposed to have had for me was entirely a figment of my mother's imagination. I'm sure it helped her sleep at night to believe in it, though."

He nodded slowly and paused. "And your mother? Does she love you?"

I shrugged. "I suppose." I took a last drag at the butt I held in my hand. It was dead but I rubbed it against the windowsill repeatedly. "Just not enough to matter."

He bit his lip and deliberated. "Did she witness the abuse first hand?"

I looked away and nodded. "A lot of it," I muttered.

"Any chance you'll tell me what he did to you?" he asked. "We'll go quid pro quo if you'd like. I'll tell you anything you want to know."

"He used to tell me to stop whining and take it like a man. Part of me thinks he was right, I guess." I waved towards the light. Better not to see his face if this went much further. Amazing how humiliation could last four decades.

"You wish you could've pleased him? Met his standards?" he asked, turning out the light.

"Hell, no. I thought his standards were petty, stupid, tyrannical. I still think so."

"But to have felt that he loved you, that his standards were reasonable, to have what all of the other kids had...did you long for that?"

"Did I want a real Dad? Absolutely. But, as my favorite philosopher once said, 'You can't always get what you want.'" I hated talking about my father.

He must've taken note of my tone and silence. "Want to shift the focus to me?"

"Yeah. Tell me about your mom. How did you two get along?"

He chuckled. "Not well. But it wasn't always that way. She was...moody." His chuckle grew slowly into laughter. "She called me the 'Prodigal Son' a few days before she died." He shook his head. "That wasn't me." He lowered his eyes again and stopped laughing. "It was Frank. But I...I have no idea what she was talking about. She never really noticed me. And was always...filled with disappointment."

"It would have been so much more convenient if he'd been the good son and you'd been the drug addict who neglected her -- under the circumstances."

He sounded bitter. "Instead, I was the nearly alcoholic son who spent his entire savings trying to keep her alive, who struggled to keep his mind and life together while enduring the torture of watching her die. Who nearly lost everything he would have left when she was gone - his job - in the interest of making sure she didn't die alone. And still she hated him. And only because he wasn't Frank." His breathing was audible in the silent darkness. "He could go for a drink right now," he added, sighing. "After all, that may actually be all that he has left. All of his abilities are in his mind. If he loses that..." He trailed off.

"A drink sounds very good right now," I admitted, grateful for the dark. "We're in the same boat in some ways. The only thing that has ever made any sense in my life is my ability to out-think everybody else. If I've lost my mind, then I've lost it all." And I probably had.

"If it's any consolation, Eames swears that it couldn't happen. But she's keeping the secret. She knows the reality of the situation. Each time I see her there's more worry in her eyes. If they knew I was here, the department would do away with me."

He sounded desperate. I understood the feeling. "I don't know what will happen when I'm released. My boss knows everything but I'm not sure whether that means it's already over or if there's a possibility of returning to my old job if the shrinks here give the O.K. But, so far, we're nowhere near that point."

"Stressful, waiting for a verdict, isn't it?" he asked unenthusiastically. I felt him looking at me. "Sleep?"

"Yeah. Worth a try," I agreed. As we climbed into our separate beds, I laughed at the realization of what I'd engineered. "You realize that we're either going to drive each other completely over the edge or we're going to cure each other?" I said by way of a goodnight.

"Either way works for me," he said as he turned over to signal the end of conversation for the night.


	12. You Go To My Head

You go to my head, with a smile that makes my temperature rise  
Like a summer with a thousand Julys  
You intoxicate my soul with your eyes

Though I'm certain that this heart of mine  
Hasn't a ghost of a chance in this crazy romance  
You go to my head.

"You Go To My Head" -- Judy Garland

Lights out. My new favorite time of day.

I laid in bed reading while Greg was in the shower. Beneath my mattress was a bottle of bourbon I came across by way of a long time friend, always a reliable guy. I tried not to think of him; it would only make useless the little buzz I'd gotten swigging liberally from the bottle while Greg was gone. Something in me relished the possibilities should he come back and find I was far ahead of him in terms of drunkenness. Inhibitions long gone, I tossed my book to the side and kept an eye peeled on the bathroom door, awaiting his arrival.

He came out in a bathrobe, limping painfully.

I grinned. "You're attractive when you hobble."

He snorted. "A secret attraction to cripples?" He rounded the end of his bed and approached mine. "Not that I'm complaining," he assured me as he sat down heavily beside me on mine.

I looked into his eyes. Intoxicating blue. "It's a not-so-secret attraction to geniuses. You just happen to be a cripple. And I just happen to find that attractive."

"Lucky me, he grinned, meeting my stare. "I'm still finding it hard to adjust to the fact that I'm sleeping with a cop. Voluntarily."

I laughed. "Detective," I corrected him. As if I cared. "Guess what?"

"What, Detective Goren?" I enjoyed his surprisingly seductive inflection.

I bit my lip before I continued. "I was gifted something that you might find interesting," I slurred. I snickered. "As you may have noticed."

He made a show of looking around on the bed. "No handcuffs," he announced. He leaned towards me to examine my face more closely. "Eyes a little unfocused, slurred speech." He sniffed and grinned. "From the smell of whiskey on your breath, I'd say you've got a bottle of booze somewhere about your person. Do I get to search you for it?"

"I hadn't thought of that." I slipped the bottle from under the mattress and placed it in his hand. "How about you search me later?"

He snickered as he opened the bottle. "You can count on it." He raised the bottle to his lips and took a long swallow. Eyes closed, he whispered appreciatively, "I knew I wanted to be your roommate."

I sat up and moved to the edge of the bed to slide my arm behind his back. "The best roommates know all the depraved drug dealers."

"Occupational hazard or employee benefit?" He took another swallow and then eyed how much was left. "Looks like I've got some catching-up to do."

"Employee benefit," I volunteered, ignoring his statement of the obvious. "Loads of benefits, actually, knowing this guy. He was one of my informants when I was working narcotics. We're close."

He raised an eyebrow. "Define close."

I hated having to admit to the limitations between myself and Miguel as much as I loved knowing that Greg knew the truth about them. "If we both had different careers, we'd probably live together," I admitted.

"You get more interesting all the time," House admitted, taking another swallow and handing the bottle back to me. "Seeing as you don't both have different careers, there must be even more to the secret life of Bobby Goren than I guessed. I want to hear all about it," he wheedled.

I closed my eyes and took a deep breath. "Miguel Carrosquillo. He's 33 now. Started dealing at about 16. We met a few weeks after he got out of Juvi; he was 18 at the time. I was seeing a woman then and I've seen women since then, but Miguel..." I trailed off and smiled thinking of how much I missed him. "We got...involved, I guess...when he was 22. I was still working Narcotics. My partner and I called him in for questioning and I took him out for drinks after. He...came on strong." I waited, preferring Greg asked specific questions. I wanted to know what, precisely, he wanted to know.

"Eleven years is a long time. It sounds serious."

"It...is what it is," I replied. I kept thinking of how Miguel talked that first night over drinks, how unwilling he was to take no for an answer.

"Well, what is it then?" The irritation surprised me given how frequently House deflected uncomfortable questions.

I took a sip of the bourbon, capped it and laid it on the bed between us. "Infatuation. Frustration." I smiled. "Dangerous for both of us."

"But you can't stop? Or you've never wanted to?" He was appraising me as he reached for the bourbon.

I raised an eyebrow as I shrugged. "I'm crazy about him. Like I said. I'd live with him if I could."

House nodded. "So how often do you indulge this dangerous infatuation?"

"Not much since my suspension. Not as frequently as I would've liked in the weeks leading up to my mother's death. He was a godsend after that. Especially when I found out who my father was."

I took pause as I recalled calling him from my mother's hospital room a few hours after she died. He urged me to come to his place instead of mine. He didn't want me to be alone. We drank tequila until we could laugh at the absurdity of our own names and then we laid in silence for several hours before he finally asked me what I was thinking. 'That the world is no different with or without me,' I replied. He told me he was thinking about how much he would miss me when I was gone. 'So don't go anywhere,' he said.

"Before mom got really sick, we were together three or four times a week," I told Greg.

"Have you always been a switchhitter?" He quickly took a swig from the bottle preferring not to look me in the eye. I couldn't tell whether he was trying to avoid his own discomfort with the question or if he anticipated mine.

I took the bottle from him and took another sip. "I try to think of love in terms of love and not sex," I replied. "Miguel is Miguel. I want his soul. His body is an added bonus."

"Would Miguel be unhappy if he were to hear about ..." he waved his hand back and forth between us, "this?"

I thought about it as I capped the bottle and laid it on the bed between us. "When I think about..." I mimicked him, "...this...in terms of Miguel, even I'm a little unhappy." I swallowed hard and thought about how grateful I was that he'd brought me the bourbon. Then I wondered whether he would've rather not brought it if he knew the conversation that would emerge as a result of imbibing. "He's been telling me for five years that it'd end sooner or later."

"It's times like these I miss my piano. The narc and the sexy young Latino drug dealer--there's a tale that could inspire the blues."

I chuckled and slipped my hand onto his thigh. "You don't know that he's sexy."

"Really? I'm pretty sure you said he was young and hot." Greg's smile, slightly out of focus, encouraged me.

I squinted. "Did I say that?" I asked, sliding closer to him. I bit my lip before I went on. "What about you? Are you switchhitting?"

"I've been with a lot more women than men in my life but you're not the first guy by any means."

"Tell me about the men," I asked. "It'd be nice to know whether I'm your type or just some easy guy you met in an asylum." I laughed and took another sip from the bottle.

"Says the man with a thing for hot young criminals who speak Spanish. I'm clearly not your type at all." It was too obvious a deflection to get past me even in my inebriated state.

I chuckled and shrugged. "Puerto Ricans are all that's right with the world," I replied. My lips were dry. "So. The men...?"

"There've been a handful. A friend when I was a teenager. A couple of guys I met in college. A couple of guys I met at medical conventions. The doctors were just -- an experiment." He had the look I saw in suspects when against their better judgment they felt moved to confess something to me.

"An experiment?" I asked. I took another swig of the bourbon and glanced over at the note Miguel sent with it on the nightstand. I wished I could call him. "Mind explaining?"

"I guess to see how I felt about meaningless sex with men. I do it with women all the time. I hadn't really tried it with men. I figured it said something about where I'd fit on the Kinsey scale."

I nodded, though I never put much stock in the Kinsey Scale. "And how do you feel about it? Meaningless sex with men," I clarified.

He shrugged. "I can do it. Not really what I'm into it."

"What are you into?"

"Someone worth engaging in more than one dimension. Someone who makes life less boring." He took the bottle back from me but didn't immediately open it. He sat staring down at it, rotating it in his hands.

Something in his story was missing. I cocked my head to the side and squinted, preparing to interrogate. "Are you a homosexual?" I asked, suddenly considering that a distinct possibility. Perhaps even he hadn't considered it.

He did a double-take. "Detective, you disappoint me. How do you hear, 'he fucks all women and some men' and get homosexual from that? Isn't that the definition of bisexual?"

Drunkenly, I let my eyes look over his face, observe his eyes. "How often do you find women worth engaging in more than one dimension?"

"It's rare I find anyone worth engaging in more than one dimension actually." He rubbed at his thigh and grimaced. "The most serious relationship of my life was with a woman. We lived together for years until..." he gestured towards his leg. "She betrayed me and then she left me." He looked angry, bitter.

"Any serious relationships since she left?"

"No." I waited for him to elaborate but he didn't.

I pursed my lips and studied him. "It's difficult," I offered.

"So, your turn. You've mentioned Miguel. Are you gay? How does that go over in the department?"

I chuckled and allowed the deflection. "It wouldn't go over well if they knew. But as of about seven years ago, yeah." I nodded. "I am."

"So does Eames know all your secrets -- that you're gay and in love with a soulful young drug dealer? And whatever other secrets you haven't told me yet?" Disappointment might have been written all over his face when he mentioned Miguel -- or it might have been wishful thinking on my part.

I shook my head. "We don't really talk about those things. Here and there things come up, but she'd never be able to understand the thing with Miguel. But only because of the drugs."

"And do you and Miguel sample the merchandise when you're together?" He couldn't seem to stay away from the subject of Miguel.

I smiled. "It's been known to happen," I admitted. "There's an overarching theme in your questioning. Is there something you're trying to get to on the subject of Miguel?"

His focus was clouded by bourbon so what might have been intended as a penetrating stare came off as a dreamy gaze. It was an appealing look. The blue of his eyes distracted me, made me think of Miguel's dark eyes, led me to compare the ways in which these two were polar opposites of each other, diverted my attention from his answer when it finally came. I had to repeat the words in my head to make sense of them. "He's a piece of the puzzle. I'm trying to figure out how he fits into the picture."

Miguel was meant to be a cloud of smoke. He was meant to be the gray area between the black and white. He was a passage to sustainable identity. What a bittersweet day it would be when I finally discovered myself. But what if I already had?

I smiled sadly and shook my head. "I can fit a puzzle piece for you, but I'm not sure it's the big picture," I admitted. "I'm not sure he fits in at all. But." I yielded to a temporarily absent mind.

'Oh, yes,' I thought.

"But. He smuggled this bourbon in here for my birthday." I chuckled. "He was in the previous piece. But he's not in this one at all."

House paused. "Anything else you'd like for your birthday?" His voice was raspy and sent a shiver up my spine. His hand snaked over and rested on the small of my back. "You get a birthday wish if it's something I can grant," he slurred, "so make the most ot it."

I glanced around a room manufactured to support life in the most depressing of ways, ironically intended to sustain life. I looked back at Greg. His eyes betrayed his intoxication. "My wish..." I began slowly, "...is for you to enjoy every moment to come. I'll do whatever it takes to make that happen."

He chuckled nervously. "Wasting a wish aren't you?" he mumbled, not meeting my eyes.

I tilted my head so that I could see them. "Not really," I replied. "I'm coming along for the ride, after all."

He shrugged and then reached over to cup my face. "You going to let me drive?" he asked, breathing the words inches from my mouth.

I nodded and kissed him, imagining for a moment that he was someone other than he was, knowing beyond the shadow of a doubt that was any possibility. I was insane to believe that there would be less pain with Greg than with Miguel. That pain was the reason that I obsessed over the impracticality of our circumstances and longed to understand why I continued to push away suitable, logical emotional entanglements. Miguel and Greg were soon to be painful, beautiful pages in my history.

There was no point in contemplating that then. What mattered was savoring the moment and enjoying whatever time we had left.


	13. In My Arms

Looking at hospitals Victorian  
Feeling as helpless as the elephant man  
Wish you were here  
To chain you up and without shame  
In my arms tonight

I ain't a soft and saccharine wannabe  
Still I pray to god this song will end happily  
So I offer you a place to rest and forget yourself  
In my arms tonight

"In My Arms" -- Rufus Wainwright

Four a.m. The worst hour of any sleepless night. It's dark enough to see whatever ghosts, living or dead, haunt you from the shadows. I looked at the bottle of bourbon and realized that, all day and all night, it had been Miguel lurking around the edges of my consciousness. I raised the bottle and discovered I was down to the last inch of amber liquid. Almost time to say goodbye to the only tangible evidence I had of my connection with Miguel. House was snoring softly from his own bed. I held the bottle to my chest and closed my eyes so I could focus on the image of Miguel as I'd last seen him.

He was looking down at the scratched wood of the table in the darkness of Antonio's corner booth. As a flame guttered in the red glass candle-holder, I watched the play of shadows and light on Miguel's face. He looked up and gave a slight smile, forcing it to stick for as long as possible. He reached over and played with my fingers briefly, pulled them back quickly and folded his arms across his chest. As he slid down, he managed another little smile. "I've been missing you, Bobby. I was beginning to think I'd never see you again." He winked at me. "Are you keeping out of trouble?"

I shrugged and sipped my bourbon, unsure whether my invisible friends would constitute trouble in Miguel's conception of the world.

He shifted nervously in the seat as the waitress placed another two bourbons on the table. He finished his old glass and handed it off to her. He watched her walk away. "Say something to me, please," he said, looking back at me.

"Why wouldn't you see me again?" I asked curiously. The degree to which I skirted madness on a daily basis couldn't be transparent enough to prompt that statement.

"I don't know. I guess things are crazy now, anyway. Tough to find time to spend with me?"

I nodded. "Crazy pretty well describes it. Things have been ... difficult." I lifted my glass and drank to cover a lack of details. I felt unable to elaborate with either vague excuses or detailed fabrications. I closed my eyes to avoid his.

"Will you tell me what's been going on? Can you?" Miguel asked. Our communication had to halt abruptly once I was suspended. "Are you undercover again or something?"

"No. Just busy." It was time to look up. Our eyes met and I wondered why I had hadn't called him in so long. "You?" I asked, hoping there was no significance to the gap between his calls.

He shrugged. "Not much, really. Business as usual. Watching a lot of late night nature programming in my underwear."

I chuckled. "I could see why you wouldn't want any witnesses."

He smiled. "Let us not forget the time you got me stoned and made me watch Breakfast At Tiffany's at four thirty in the morning. I can't be embarrassed in front of you anymore."

I shook my head. "No one escapes contact with Audrey Hepburn and 'Moon River' unscathed." The memory of the two of us lounging naked in Miguel's bed watching American Movie Classics came back to me in a rush. Why hadn't I called him? Probably because, all evidence to the contrary, I rarely got to be alone anymore. My hours of insomnia were spent at the mercy of uninvited visitors who filled the air space with their chatter. Solitude eluded me.

He smiled. "No. They don't." He took a sip of his bourbon. "How are you passing your time?"

I tried to smile but had to look away, remembering with discomfort Nicole's soliloquies at 4 a.m. Would Miguel's presence be enough to keep her at bay? "Now that I'm here with you now, I ask myself the same question. Nothing that should have kept us apart this long," I whispered, reaching across to bring my fingers in proximity to his. Head down, I looked up surreptitiously, trying to read Miguel's eyes in the dark glow of our nook.

He squeezed my hand. "Does this mean that we aren't going to be apart anymore?" he asked with a hint of sincerity. His sarcasm was audible, I thought. Though my perception had been off for weeks, so I couldn't be sure.

"I'm not planning to quit the NYPD, if that's what you're asking," I replied with studied nonchalance. Looking straight into his eyes, I didn't like the look I saw there. Stroking his fingers with mine, I couldn't keep the longing out of my voice as I admitted hoarsely, "But it's been far too long."

"We should go back to my place, then. Turn on the television. Toke up. You look like you could use some relaxation."

"That sounds...perfect." I motioned for the check and started pulling my wallet out. We were back at Miguel's apartment within twenty minutes.

To my eternal surprise, brandy was Miguel's favorite drink. He kept snifters and a decanter on a table in the living room for easy access. All other alcohol was kept in the liquor cabinet. I poured two and flipped through television channels as he packed a pipe. Miguel used to meet me at the door with a pipe as soon as I got back from work. The sight of a detective wearing a badge while smoking pot amused him consistently. I smiled as I stopped on 'The Drug Years'.

"Ah, yes. A shared interest," he said, lighting the pipe.

"Ah, my misspent youth," I chuckled as I realized the episode chronicled pot use in the 70s. Watching the familiar scenes from "Teenage Wasteland" as I took a toke on Miguel's pipe amused me more than it should have. I settled back and enjoyed the harsh burn in my lungs as I handed back the pipe and lighter.

"Was this before or after your military life?" he asked with a chuckle. "I can't imagine you smoking in uniform..."

"This was my high school days -- and college." I gestured towards the screen. "Just like them. You were an infant of course," I said with a smirk.

He laughed. "That makes you a cradle robber for sure," he said, taking a hit of the pipe and placing it onto the table. He sipped his brandy.

I reached for the pipe and laughed. "If I'd hit on you the first time we met, you could have called me a pedophile. Cradle robber...when we finally got together? That's...really fucking ridiculous," I snorted. "I've always been more of a child than you anyway," I quickly added before drawing on the almost dead pipe.

He grinned. "That's definitely the truth. I agree with your assessment " He looked over at the television and sighed before shaking his head. "If anyone ever saw me watching VH1 with a cop, I'd lose every ounce of my street cred."

"So we're even here on the blackmail potential. Mutual assured destruction works for me," I grinned as I crossed my arms and leaned back against the sofa cushion in satisfaction.

"Hmm," he began. "Any reason you're inviting destruction?" he asked sincerely.

I rolled my eyes. "How stoned are you, anyway?" I debated answering him seriously but decided against it. "Why don't you just come here and let me take advantage of you?" I offered instead.

He lifted an eyebrow and sighed. "Because I don't know when I'll see you again. I wanna have more than that to remember."

"Any reason why you're worried about this?" I asked. "I'm not planning on disappearing..." I offered in a tone that downplayed the possibility of anything changing between us.

He stared at me a second. "I think there's something really wrong and I think that's why we aren't seeing each other. What I can't figure out is whether it's something I did or if we're just growing apart because of our circumstances."

"Maybe it's just something with me. It will pass," I insisted. I didn't want anything to change between us. "You know...I have my ups and downs," I reminded him.

He nodded. "O.K.," he replied, leaning over to put his head in my lap. He looked up at me. "Start taking advantage, then."

I smiled and went ahead.

Laying in a


	14. The Couch

So here we both are battling similar demons (not coincidentally)  
You see in getting beyond knowing it slowly intellectually,  
You're not relinquishing your majesty.

"The Couch" - Alanis Morisette

Sharing a room with Greg had me looking forward to lights out. Before he'd gotten the switch, I loathed everything about lights out, particularly the lack of a television to drown out my voice in my head. That voice knew too much about me and was bent on complete destruction. Sprinkle the loneliness of an empty room with the stark sound of silence and you have a recipe for self-destruction. The three days before he moved over, I spent my nights hardly sleeping, thereby comtemplating my existential conundrum for hours upon hours. It was enough to make me loathe the smiling faces that counseled me, handed me drugs, promised me things would get better.... From time to time I contemplated _faking_ a full recovery in the interest of locating something better than bedsheets and isopropyl alcohol to...well, to make Eames' speedy response to my late-night S.O.S. worthless. It was three in the morning when I called her and told her the truth. "I just can't do this anymore," I said, which was enough for her to rush over in pajamas.

I missed Eames. I missed Miguel, but he was in occasional contact with me via proxy, an orderly who wasn't paid nearly well enough. He came to find me whenever he had something from Miguel to drop off. I made a request for marijuana, naughty boy that I am. Purely therapeutic in administration, however; I meant only to lubricate Greg for a normal conversation about himself as I'd done so many times with suspects. Rarely was this behavior endorsed. I didn't realize to what degree until my face was plastered alongside a Simon Fife's on national television. Fife was delusional, convinced he'd murdered a girl he'd never even met. I'd pushed champagne on him while flying back from Korea supposing he'd slip up and say something useful. He never did, which made the "disgusting" image of me pouring him a glass of champagne _particularly_ annoying. Fife was crazy; there was never any justice for the insane as far as cops were concerned; having a soft spot for the mentally ill, I gave everyone the benefit of the doubt. Fife was crazy, but he was no murderer. Sometimes the truth doesn't matter unless you're willing to mine for it. If it meant going to jail for possession, I was prepared to mine for the truth about Greg. Getting stoned was an added bonus.

After dinner, I walked back to our room with Greg, listening to him rant endlessly about this or that. I loved his voice. And his mind. And his smell. And his walk. In short, I wasn't complaining.

I shut the door as soon as we got inside.

"I've got something for us to do tonight," I said. "I was going to steal all of the Scrabble tiles from the Rec Room and draw a board on the bathroom floor. Fun way to get a ticket out of here," I said with a shrug.

"Nah! A little defacing of property might add to your bill but it won't get them to turn you loose," he argued. "I wouldn't be surprised if vandalism is just another symptom in the DSM-IV for bipolar disorder, Type I."

I smiled. "In a roundabout way it is," I said as I went to the bed. I pulled a baggie out from under the mattress. "I rolled a couple of these while you were in session today." I handed him a joint.

His eyes lit up. "Is there anything you can't get, roomie?" He sniffed at the joint and gloated, "Lucky for me that your mommy taught you to share."

"Mommy taught me a lot of things, but sharing wasn't one of them. I learned that in the army." I pulled a lighter from my pocket and grinned at him. "Light it," I said with enthusiasm.

He made a show of snatching the lighter from me. "Peer pressure will be the death of me." He took a long drag and held his breath, a beatific smile spreading across his face as he handed me the joint.

"When was the last time you smoked?" I asked, genuinely curious. I took a hit and handed it back over to him.

He shrugged. "Dunno. I steal pot from Wilson sometimes when he's rolling joints for his cancer patients." His smirk was priceless as he took another toke.

"You seem exactly the type." I cracked the window and sat in the chair beside it. "I've been wondering what you must be like when you're baked," I admitted. I gestured to the chair beside me.

"Horny mostly," he bragged, coming over and handing me the joint before sitting down next to me. "You?"

I shrugged sheepishly. "I guess you'll find out."

"I had you pegged for coke, not weed. How often do you smoke?" he asked with a wink.

"It depends. Sometimes often, sometimes not so much. Coke I can't afford, which is for the best." I took another hit and passed it back over to him.

We passed the joint back and forth in silence for a few minutes. House leaned his arms against the windowsill and rested his chin there, staring out.

I took a deep breath and stretched, then slouched down in the chair. "It's nice out there. Pity we can't take walks," I remarked, hoping to spark some conversation.

He looked over at me. "Cripple here," he gestured to himself. "But it would be nice to sit outside."

I grinned. "That, it would," I said. "I'm interested in what you're thinking," I added.

"I'm thinking about how good it feels to ride my bike on a night like this."

"It hadn't occurred to me that you might be a bike guy," I said. I tilted my head to the side, pretending to observe him. "Yeah. I see it now." I stared at him quietly, knowing he'd take the opportunity to speak, hoping he'd bring up something interesting.

He reached for the joint and the lighter. "I used to run. When I'm on the bike, it's the next best thing." He took a drag off the roach before handing it back.

I put it in the "ashtray" he made in art therapy, one of several giant chunks of clay he'd brought back to the room. "Not many detectives have time to run. Not that I necessarily would."

He'd gone back to staring out the window, chin on hands, elbows on the windowsill. "When I was a kid, it was one of the few things that I loved doing that the old man didn't consider 'faggy.' Not that football or baseball wouldn't have been better...."

"I can't see you doing either. Doesn't suit you." I stared at the back of his head while he kept a close watch on the sky. "What did you enjoy doing?"

"Reading, thinking, asking questions ... and all of those were suspect activities in my father's eyes." As he glanced my way, I could see he was stoned. "Running gave me the illusion of freedom. I had to make do with that until I could really be free."

"The illusion of freedom," I repeated, mulling it over. "Now you can't run. So do you feel free?"

He snorted. "What do you think?"

I nodded. "Is it this place? Or are you trapped somewhere else?"

"When I was a kid, I lived for the day I'd leave my parents' house for college and finally be free. It took me years to realize it doesn't work that way. I'd taken my father along with me for the ride. He's the monkey on my back, the voice in my head that judges everything I do, who constantly reminds me I'm a piece of crap and I always will be. That will never change, even though he's dead, even though he wasn't really my father. It doesn't matter." He shook his head in disgust. "And it just keeps adding up..."

Trapped in his head. I was well aware of what that was like. "I see what you mean. It's easy to think he might've been right when you're losing your mind," I acknowledged carefully.

He shrugged. "Or maybe he's part of why I'm losing my mind. Not that he's been paying any visits the way Amber and Kutner have...."

I stared at him for a second. As was typical of me, I was considering what I could do to help him. My soft spot for the insane knew no bounds. The struggle Greg was enduring was a case to be cracked, I imagined, and I was meant for nothing if not cracking cases. Mental institutions were boring, anyway, and a project was precisely what I needed to regain my confidence.

"My mom," I began, clearing my throat, "was beaten and raped by the man that fathered me. She was...never the same. Not after that. Then she started bring home boyfriends...really nasty men. I...mouthed off to one of them. Only once. And he flew off the handle. The only reason I wasn't beaten to within an inch of my life was because Frank was there to pull him off of me. I've always thought...that was the reason that I was so tolerant of Frank's behavior for so long. He...saved my childhood." I shook my head. "I can't imagine the damage that might've been done if Frank hadn't intervened. And I can't imagine what it might be like to grow up with someone terrorizing me my entire childhood." I stared at him while I waited for a reply, hoping that he was relaxed and uninhibited enough to talk to me.

"Did she keep him around?" Greg asked with a tone I couldn't quite read.

"She didn't keep anyone around."

"Lucky you," he muttered under his breath.

I shrugged. "Some might say it made things worse. I tend to think my flaws are hereditary, not environmental. So maybe you're right; maybe I was lucky." I couldn't stop staring at him. I wished he would turn around and look at me when he talked, but I couldn't have looked at him if I were saying the same things to him. Benefit of the doubt was certainly due. "How bad was it?" I asked, referring to his father. I suspected he'd understand what I meant.

"He didn't kill me or maim me so I suppose it wasn't that bad." He barked out a laugh entirely lacking in mirth. "He always said I was just a whiny little bastard. I'm sure he was right."

"What did he do?" I asked boldly, hoping to put a stop to the endless skirting of the issue.

He turned to me with irritation. "Why do you care? What's it to you what my old man did to me?" He quickly turned back to face the window, not waiting for an answer.

I took a deep breath before I continued. "I don't know," I answered half-truthfully. "But what if I can help you? What if I can solve your case when no one else can? Wouldn't it be great for both of us to do something good for our heads right now?"

He gave me a disbelieving look, which softened into a smile, which broadened into a grin and then erupted into a deep chuckle. "You're saying I need a brilliant detective to figure out the mystery of my psyche ... rather than some moron shrink?"

I smiled. "Something like that."

"What if there is no mystery? What if I'm just a garden variety batshit crazy of the hallucinating variety?"

I shook my head. "You aren't. I'd have spotted it."

He nodded his head to reassure himself and then went back to looking out the window. "I'm 50 years old but I still feel trapped by what happened to me when I was 8. Talking about it or not talking about it -- either way it's humiliating." Despite the weed, he looked far from relaxed, hunched over on himself, rocking a little, rigidly not looking in my direction.

I pulled out another joint and lit it, then handed it over. "I can't stop you feeling...humiliated. But I won't think less of you for talking about it. I mean...have you _ever_ really talked about it?"

"Not really...." He stopped moving. "Once. To a girl who'd just been raped and wanted to know something really bad that had happened to me."

"Do you know me better than you knew her?"

He rolled his eyes. "Yeah. Of course. Relevance?"

"Maybe it's easier to talk to me."

"I hate to ruin a good theory but I've known Wilson better than you for over a decade and he has no idea why I hated the man who was supposed to be my father. And he _met_ my father. Even forced me to go to his funeral. And I use the term 'forced' literally." He turned around and stared at me intensely. "Not that Wilson matters at all when it comes to this...."

Part of me knew that he'd be unwilling to talk to me, but it wasn't any less disappointing that he wouldn't. He handed the joint back to me and I took another hit. "Look," I said, handing it over to him, "I understand. You don't want to talk about it. But what if...what if we never saw each other again? If we left this place and...we never saw each other again...we could agree to that," I said, regretfully. "I want to be better. You want to be better." I shook my head, annoyed at my inability to get my point across. "Or I could be the one you go to. I could be the call you make when you can't stand to sit through another therapy session." I smiled. "But you don't have to tell me at all. This is all about trust. I don't expect you to trust me more than Wilson. So...you wanna keep it to yourself? That's fine. I just thought...I thought you trusted me as much as I trust you."

He stared at me for a full thirty seconds before asking, "Why would you trust me?" His incredulity surprised me.

"Because there's only you. No one else can restore my self-confidence."

"I can't restore my own self-confidence," House mumbled in a whisper. "Besides, everybody lies." I sensed a doubt behind the blanket assertion. I couldn't tell if he was trying to remind himself to be wary or reassert why all efforts were doomed to failure.

I nodded. "That's true," I acknowledged. "But I don't have time to lie to you about this. I'm asking you to let _me_ restore you confidence _and_ mine." I leaned over and put my hand on his back. He took a hit of the joint and handed it back to me. "Please let me do this," I begged. "It can't hurt to try."

He looked down at his hands and nodded. "It's nothing special. He just ... hated everything about me. And I ... couldn't resist bucking authority ... talking back. He believed in discipline. Corporal punishment was how they did it in those days. When I was really little, it wasn't much, although he scared me with his drill sergeant routine. But everybody got spanked, paddled... right? Are belts even that unusual? He told me I never learned and that I left him no choice. Eventually, he graduated to things like ice water baths, locking me out of the house overnight so I'd have to sleep outside, not speaking to me for months at a time. I kind of liked the not-speaking one." He was still staring down at his hands.

I took a deep breath and put my head in my hands for a second. My elbow rested on the windowsill, my head in my hand. I tried to catch his eye as I spoke. "What did you have to do to provoke these incidents? Specifically," I added. No time to be vague, I decided.

"Come home late for dinner after you've gotten a warning and get locked out of the house. Disrespect authority, violate a rule, forget a chore, lose or break something he'd paid for, embarrass him in front of his buddies ... the normal stuff for a young kid ... required retaliation. For my own good, of course," he added sarcastically.

I nodded. Ice water baths. I couldn't wrap my head around the necessity for such a punishment. "Tell me what justifies being submerged in freezing water."

"Showing up the old man on a hot day."

"How'd you show him up?"

He looked uncomfortable, nervous. "It was at a picnic in North Carolina on base. His buddy ate some fried chicken and got a gall bladder attack. My dad started talking about gallstones and how they're made of calcium crystals. I was 12 and I'd been reading physiology books at the library. One of the suspect activities I couldn't do at home -- reading science books I didn't have to read for school. I felt like showing off so I told him that a lot of gallstones are made of cholesterol. He called me stupid and said cholesterol was in the blood and could give you a heart attack. There was bile in the gallbladder and that contained calcium and that caused gallstones. I tried to explain the biochemistry to him but he cut me off and told me he didn't need me to parade my ignorance. He told me to run 5 laps around the ball field to learn when to keep my mouth shut."

I frowned. "How'd the ice bath come up?"

He started to fidget. "It was 95 degrees in the shade and humid. I ran the laps but I smiled the whole time so it wouldn't give him any satisfaction. I stayed out of his way for the rest of the picnic. On the way home, he said it seemed like I liked running the laps so maybe I hadn't really learned my lesson. My mom said, 'John, it's such a hot day. Nobody could enjoy running on a day like today.'" He mimicked his mother's voice with a soft, placating tone. He shifted to a harsh, biting voice as he recited his father's answer. "'Is that right? Was I too hard on you, Greg? Making you get all overheated like that? Well, don't worry, boy, we'll cool you down right quick when we get home.'" House shivered involuntarily at the memory.

My heart raced as I watched him wring his hands, sigh, look all over, put his hand to his temple. He was humiliated, just as he predicted. I fought the urge to tell him I loved him though it was true and I suspected he needed to hear it. He'd stop trusting me. "Was it a bathtub?"

House jerked his head up and down quickly, then paused to take a deep breath. I had to lean forward to hear him as he continued, "We were driving and he stopped by a gas station and told me to go in and buy 5 bags of ice. When we got home...."

I swallowed hard, fighting to hide my disappointment and disgust. "Did you fight him?"

"Yeah," he rasped, crossing his arms and rocking again. "It didn't help. Probably made it worse." He looked over at me, eyes watering. "No more." He propped his arms up on the windowsill again and buried his face in his hands.

I pinched the end of the joint to extinguish the flame and moved my chair closer to his. "O.K.," I agreed. Desperate to kiss him, to tell him he was free of all of his father's shit, I had to settle for asking if he was tired. After all, telling people they're free doesn't make it so. House was one of a handful of people who knew that as well as I did. "We can go to bed if you're tired. We can do whatever you want," I offered.

"No we can't," he objected, raising his head to look up at me.

My heart was in my throat, still racing. I frowned. "What is it that you want?"

"I wanna ride my bike. Very fast. For a very long time." He buried his head in his arms again as if he could shut out the memories by shutting out the world around him.

How to respond to that? "Is there anything I can do for you? I will."

Greg raised his head. His eyes glistened as he hoarsely voiced his request. "Can you make me forget? Can you make it all go away?"

By no means was I sure whether I could or couldn't. "I don't know," I answered honestly. "No one can make you forget. Making it all go away..." I trailed off. "I want to try."

A gust of wind through the window gave me a chill just before Greg turned to me. He wrapped a hand around my neck and pulled me toward him. We kissed, moved to the bed and spent the following half hour (I supposed) making love.

He fell asleep beside me soon afterwards. I stroked his arm. He believed himself unlovable. He believed his father and he struggled to meet his expectations. I wondered how much time had passed between his father's death and his breakdown. Consciously, Greg would have logically determined that the burden of pleasing would've died with the old man, but subconsciously, he'd see himself as an eternal failure, having never managed to please him. Drugs might quiet the voices but the facts would remain the same. He needed a chance to stand up for himself. He deserved a confrontation.

My thoughts drifted to an old girlfriend as I thought about hypnosis. Thought I'd never mastered it, she'd given me several lessons. I wondered whether _looking_ at things again would conjure a hallucination. Would it put his mind at rest? I nudged him.

"What?" he snapped.

"Are you still seeing ghosts?" I asked.

He nodded. "Occasionally."

"I have an idea. But you'd have to palm your psych meds."

"No arguments there," he replied. "Now go get in your own bed. It's hot and cramped."

I smiled at him and went to bed.


	15. The Scientist

Ch 15: The Scientist

Tell me your secrets  
And ask me your questions  
Oh let's go back to the start ...

Nobody said it was easy  
It's such a shame for us to part  
Nobody said it was easy  
No one ever said it would be this hard

Oh take me back to the start

I was just guessing  
At numbers and figures  
Pulling your puzzles apart

Questions of science  
Science and progress  
Do not speak as loud as my heart

"The Scientist," Coldplay

I regretted changing rooms. If I hadn't changed rooms, I wouldn't have humiliated myself with Bobby last night. I wouldn't be lying with my head tucked under my pillow dreading the moment he returned from the shower and wanted to talk to me. I'd have given my right arm for a bottle of vicodin at that moment, not because my leg hurt, which it did, but for the more general drugged feeling it could induce. The world had too many sharp edges at that moment and I couldn't avoid getting cut with every move I made. I groaned at the thought of getting up, facing Bobby and knowing that he would never see me as anything but pathetic.

I sighed when the bathroom door opened. He crept quietly through the room to avoid disturbing me as he prepared for the day. Someone knocked lightly on the door. I turned my head to get a look at the clock; it was still a half hour before we were supposed to be awake.

He was whispering. "Would you give him this?" Another voice responded unintelligibly. "Thanks. I wasn't expecting anything." The unintelligible voice came again. "Great. Tell him I can walk next week."

The door closed. He sat down on the edge of his bed. Paper rustled. Silence followed. He sighed and began mumbling to himself. "A few more weeks. Maybe two. That's not as bad as it seems." Paper rustled again; he was pushing a note back into an envelope. He crossed the room and nudged me a couple of times. "I'm done with the shower if you're ready," he said.

I pretended I was still half-asleep and waved him away. I might spend the day in bed. There was no real reason to get up anyway. No patients to save or cases to solve. In fact, that part of my life was probably over permanently. Which left no life at all. "Go away," I muttered before pulling the pillow more firmly over my head.

He nudged me again. "I can't go away. I'm supposed to stay in here for another half hour. Besides, if you don't get ready, you aren't going to be able to swipe all of the candy from the pharmacists' counter before he opens up."

"Don't care," I answered from under the pillow. I felt shitty. I wished I could smoke another joint -- this time alone.

There was a pause of significant length. "I want to hypnotize you."

Not what I'd expected.

I considered the iimplications of his statement, wondering what Goren hoped to achieve with hypnosis. My curiosity got the better of me. I pulled the pillow off my head and turned onto my side to look at him. "Why?" I asked, trying to assess whether pity or disgust predominated after my whining about my childhood the night before.

"Honestly?" he asked rhetorically. "I have a theory, I'm crazy enough to test it and I think you're crazy enough to let me. So why not?"

I sat up. "Do I get to hear the theory?" _I_ had no new ideas about what might be wrong with me. My shrink wasn't offering anything, at least to me. Bobby was smart. Whatever he had in mind would be worth hearing at least.

"I wonder...maybe if you can get back to the place...with your father? With a solid memory of what happened and the palming of your anti-psychotic, your brain might conjure a hallucination of him." He frowned and raised his eyebrows. "If you can talk to him...maybe you can deal with it. Maybe we can fix you."

"You want to create a hallucination of my father?" I was stuck at step number one.

He shrugged. "I have a hypothesis. _If_ we can conjure a hallucination - which I don't know that we can...." He sighed. "Yes. Yeah, I want to create a hallucination of your father."

"I used to say that the only good thing about this psychotic break was that at least I wasn't seeing my dead father. And now you want to ruin even that?" I started to laugh and the more I thought about Bobby's idea, the harder I laughed.

Bobby was unamused. "I can't...force you. I don't _want _to ruin _anything_. You're...he's the root of all of this. I just want to help."

"I never wanted to see or talk to the bastard while he was alive. What if he won't go away once you've 'conjured' him up?" I was horrified at the thought of my father haunting me til my dying day -- and certain that day would come fairly soon if there were no other way to get rid of him.

He shrugged. "I don't know." We sat in silence for a moment. "It's up to you. There's no guarantee that you're going to have the hallucination. This is guesswork." More silence. "Here's what I know: I'm responding to the anti-psychotics. My ghosts are gone. My time is finite. You're caught in your brain's own vortex and I'm not sure they make pills for that. If you never come out of this...you lose control. If you hallucinate him and he never goes away, you lose control. In either scenario, you've still lost what's most important to you. Six of one, half a dozen of the other."

"And what's supposed to happen if you're successful with this little magic trick? How does this help me exactly?" I was still hazy on the details of how seeing and talking to my dead father was supposed to cure me -- as opposed to sending me around the bend once and for all.

"You can take him to the mat. Have it out with him finally."

"If only it were true." He was dead. I could duke it out with myself, not with him. If it were him, he'd beat the snot out of me before he'd consider allowing himself to lose an argument.

He sighed and nodded, lowered his head and put his hand to his temple. After a second, he lowered his hand and stood. "That's O.K.," he said as sat on the edge of his bed and picked up the book on the table beside it.

"What's OK?" I asked in irritation, not sure what to think of Bobby, his plan, what happened the night before or anything else.

He shook his head again. "I'm reminding myself that it's O.K. that you said no. I'm reminding myself I'm probably better. That I don't actually need this to get out of here." He paused, staring at the wall across from him. He went back to his book.

"I didn't say no!" I yelled in frustration. "I just asked you to explain what you have in mind before I let you mess with my brain."

He threw the book to the end of the bed and stood up. "And I explained it!" he boomed. "You say it isn't true! You can't fight him. What the hell do you have to lose? You think he's never going away? So what? _You're not getting better_. You're thinking...what? That you're going to leave here with your hallucinations and lead a normal life?" He turned around and picked his book back up. After a few seconds of pacing, he laid down on the bed. "Good luck with that." He opened the book and started to read.

I decided to ignore his negative predictions for my recovery and focus on his proposal. "Do they teach hypnosis in detective school these days?" I asked, substituting ironic detachment for the anger I'd vented a moment before.

He sighed and tossed the book down beside him. He looked up at me. "A girlfriend taught me."

"And who taught her? A magician who used hypnosis to liven up his act?"

He was annoyed. "A professor in college."

"Ah. That's a little more promising than The Amazing Dave." I bit my lip and considered my next move. His attitude was really pissing me off. "If I let you practice medicine on me without a license, will you let me solve your next murder case when they take you back at the NYPD? Which I gather is going to happen any minute now...."

"Two weeks," he said, cutting me off. "They're letting me off the leash next week. If I'm not...." He paused and took a breath. "The depression is waning. The shrink told me I should be getting out of here in two weeks." He stood up and put his book down on the nightstand. He chuckled. "Suddenly hypnosis and psychiatry are 'medicine'," he said as he rubbed his temple. He went to the door and turned to take his parting shot. "You can think your way out of anything. Why don't you try to think your way _into _something for once?" We stared at each other for a second. With another sigh and a shake of his head, he turned and left the room.

He'd be leaving the room permanently in two weeks. It was all I could think about. I pulled the pillow back over my head and tried not to think at all.


	16. Overkill

_Open to possibilities  
However unlikely  
Nothing quite convincing  
As a moment of peace_

Never, never for me  
Always overkill.

"Overkill" - Jump, Little Children

_Things are improving. Privileges next week. Please come. Aching._

I sat in the corner of Dr. Buckley's couch and watched her watch me, her pen tapping lightly on the legal pad on her lap. My eyes were red, the product of a five a.m. wake-and-bake. In her position, I'd have noticed the marijuana high instantly. Shrinks were always poorly trained in comparison to cops. Of course, this was a fallacy of insufficient sample. Surely there were better trained shrinks than she. Certainly, most cops were morons. Again, the insufficient sample. Logic itself was illogical.

She smiled at me when I looked up from the carpet that surrounded her shoes. Engaging her seemed a necessity. I returned with a half-hearted smile and took a deep breath. The session would have to be tied up with Miguel. "I haven't been honest with you," I admitted. My eyes itched. I scratched.

Neither angry nor surprised, not even particularly disappointed, by my admission, she replied. "You seem upset. Are the two things connected?"

I gave an apprehensive nod. She must have taken my red eyes for sad eyes. If I wallowed in thoughts of Miguel, I could zone out and avoid talking about him. A mistake, certainly. I longed to talk about him. I needed to know the answers. "They are. I told you...that I wasn't involved with anyone. I am. He's a drug dealer. He's...too young." I shook my head. "We can't make it work. There's no chance," I finished regretfully.

She tapped her pen a few more times. "Did something happen that suddenly led you to this realization?" she asked, probing for an explanation.

I rubbed my forehead. "He won't visit." I looked up. "Or so I assume. I might be jumping to conclusions."

"How were things going before you signed yourself in here?" A reasonable question, but not definitive of anything.

"We weren't seeing much of each other. My decision. Everything that was going on...I was no good for anyone."

"And has he been in touch while you've been here? Has he visited?" she asked, making a few notes on her pad.

"He _won't_ visit," I repeated, frustrated. _Take a breath_, I reminded myself. "We write letters."

She looked at me steadily for a moment. "And how does he seem in his letters?" she finally asked.

Miguel's letters were two, three sentences long. Hardly letters. Notes. I might've responded with a paragraph, on average. "They're direct. But so are mine. Nothing to interpret."

"Can you think of a reason why you're so upset about this relationship today? Or at least didn't appear to be..." Head to the side, she waited eagerly to snatch up whatever tidbit of information she could pry out of me.

I shook my head. "I wasn't. Not any more so than usual." The brain wandered to various interruptions when I visited, knocks on the door and telephone calls. My silence was an imperative. Miguel's loyalty to his business associates was as dubious as my own. For the same life-or-death reasons, Miguel and I needed always to be vigilant. "Being together could get us both killed. Gangbangers. Cops. Neither of us is very well liked."

"And yet ... you continue to see each other? Sounds pretty serious. You risk not just your career but your life every time you see this guy -- and vice versa...." Her gaze was unwavering, pen stilled, body motionless, time suspended until I chose to either answer or evade.

I nodded. "It is. Serious, I mean." Doubtlessly, Miguel had already entertained all of the possibilities that were flooding my mind at the time. It was risking life. "He's so young...." I started, trailing. "He's wasting his time with me. And if something goes wrong...that's a huge waste."

"Are you discounting the value of your own life?" she asked, concerned.

A shrug betrayed my uncertainty. "My life is the sum of a series of resolved cases. I chose that over Miguel. I should've quit my job ages ago."

"Why do you think you should have quit your job?" she asked, making a note on her pad.

I looked away from her. "If I'd quit my job, I wouldn't be here. That job is all I have. That shouldn't be the case."

"I'm not sure I understand. Why don't you tell me why you think you're here exactly and then let's trace that chain of reasoning backwards." Her expectant stare, pen poised, put me on the spot.

I couldn't avoid rolling my eyes. "I'm here because I was pushed over the edge. I'm here because I'm obsessed with doing my job well. I could've taught. I should've taught. Who knows what kind of life I'd have had with Miguel then?" I shook my head, frustrated with myself. I was entertaining a theoretical. It was typical, but inapplicable to the situation with Miguel. It was unlikely I'd have even known him in an alternative reality. "Maybe that was better," I went on. "I don't want to trace anything. I want to have my life in New York, quit my job, have Miguel. Quitting means leaving New York, regardless. What else is he going to do for a living?" I stopped and closed my eyes, preferring to lose myself. I smiled. "He's romantic," I said, apropos of nothing. "So am I. Not common knowledge." _The least you can do is bring it full circle_, I thought. "That's why I obsess over this. Correct? It's a nice proposition." I continued to smile.

She gave me a bemused smile. "So his name is Miguel. And he's young. How young?"

"Thirty-three. Met him when he was eighteen. Got involved with him when he was twenty-two."I marveled at the fact that now _two_ people knew about him.

"Eleven years? That's a long time," she said before adding some notes to her pad. "Has Miguel ever expressed any interest in getting out of the drug business?" she asked, looking up like some intrepid girl reporter out to get the story.

"We don't discuss it," I admitted. "It's easier that way."

She looked surprised. "Why? Because he likes what he does so much he wouldn't consider doing anything else -- even if you made other options available to him?"

An absurd simplification. "Because I have a target painted on my back in New York. And you don't just quit being a drug dealer. It isn't...Burger King." It certainly was an unreasonable expectation that she would know the ins and outs of the criminal population of New York. "It's amazing he's been informing as long as he has and no one's figured it out. He's useful to cops. Better than an undercover. Drug dealers are criminals, doc. So are cops."

"You have a target painted on your back in New York? What does that mean exactly?" She looked puzzled and alarmed by my simple statement of the facts.

Paranoid and delusional. That was what was coming next and that did not equal an early discharge. She was always frustrating, asking questions that got us nowhere in a feeble attempt to get me to sound crazier than I was. "Do you even listen to me?" I couldn't help but ask. "My last assignment was an undercover operation meant to kill me. They didn't want me back and they don't want me back. But I'm going back. I'm sure you hear this a lot, but I'm not crazy. So why...why would I go back? _That's_ crazy. Right?"

"So you don't plan to return to the NYPD?"

I shrugged. "Six months without pay for risking my life to solve a crime. For being principled. For doing my job. They employ murderers...rapists. Really nasty guys." I looked up at her. "I'm not like them. And they don't want me."

"If you're not returning to the NYPD, then doesn't that change things regarding Miguel? You could both change jobs, you could both relocate to some other city. You could have a normal life together, couldn't you?"

I held out my hands in resignation. "What's normal?" I chuckled. "Nothing about us is normal." I could make him disappear. I was smart enough. "He wouldn't just leave his family."

"People leave their families all the time to go to college, to marry, to take a new job, to live somewhere they find more attractive. Unless Miguel loves the idea of being a drug dealer, starting over somewhere fresh with you ought to be an attractive possibility." She rarely attempted to challenge my conclusions so directly. Her tone was reasonable, informative, helpful. There was nothing combative in her tone at all.

It was almost enough to make me optimistic.

"Why haven't you asked me any questions about why I didn't tell you about him? How I could omit something as significant as an eleven year affair? "

She chuckled. "Nice try." With a head shake she went back to her previous subject. "Let's see. You both have a reason to want to leave NY and start fresh somewhere else. You've been involved for 11 years so there's a serious level of interest and commitment there. You're both romantic kind of guys. I see promising possibilities where all I hear from you is nay-saying. What is it you're afraid of?"

If I were reductive, I'd have already had an answer to the question. Instead, I had to disassemble the predicate. We were great together. We were engaging in reckless, dangerous behavior. Neither of us wanted another...until I met Greg. Greg was a certain impossibility. Greg...was a short lived infatuation. As merely _hours_ progressed, I found myself more concerned with Miguel, with getting out, with solving Greg's problem and proving my worth. I _could_ have Miguel if we left the city. But then what would I _do_? "I don't know how to do anything except what I do now. I'm afraid I'll be useless." I shrugged. "Better dead than useless."

"The private sector would snap you up if you were willing to leave the Major Case Unit, which, despite what you said a few moments ago, I don't think you're at all prepared to do. You're confused about what you want. Today you're focusing on Miguel. Do you still want Miguel? Can you still have Miguel? It seems like you're uncertain of both these questions. You're churning everything around those questions, endlessly ruminating about the impossibility of continuing to work for the NYPD and the equal impossibility of walking away." She paused as if to let her words sink in. She seemed prepared to pause indefinitely. I found myself shifting uncomfortably in the silence.

I cleared my throat. "O.K., so I'm uncertain," I replied, glancing all over the room. I looked back at her. "So am I paying you to help me figure it out or what?"

She smiled. "Let's focus on Miguel then and what it is you really want. Leaving aside all the difficulties that arise from a cop falling in love with a drug dealer, how well does the relationship work emotionally? How does he treat you? How do you feel when you two are alone together?"

"It's great," I answered. I pursed my lips. "We're both homebodies. We enjoy a lot of the same things. He's not what you expect of a drug dealer." I looked at her. "The truth is, they're all smarter and more interesting than they look."

She gave a distracted smile and stuck with her point. "Is there any quality you'd be looking for in a long-term relationship that you'd say is lacking in Miguel? How does he measure up to your image of an ideal partner?"

I took a breath. "I can't think of anything that's lacking. But I don't have such an image."

"It's possible that nothing's lacking but a different line of work then? And yet you're not sure what you want.... Is there something -- or someone -- you haven't mentioned that makes you second-guess your relationship and question whether Miguel is who you really want?"

It was embarrassing to think of the delusional, impulsive, obsessive way I'd initially responded to Greg. And yet I supposed it was part of my illness. "There was someone," I admitted apprehensively. "But now I understand that situation better. Unfortunately, the understanding only served to remind me that I need to be on the job to feel like I'm useful."

"You seem much more confused about whether you need or want to return to the NYPD than about whether you want to hold onto your relationship with Miguel. You say that you feel you've been made a target within your department and your life is in danger. Tell me why in that case you still feel you need or want to go back to your old job." She was jotting down notes as we talked, glancing up and down from her pad to my face. She expected a rational, well-reasoned, thorough response, not the paranoid ravings of a madman. I purposely slowed down and chose my words carefully.

"Good cops are married to the job. I'm a good cop." I stared past her head for a few seconds, considering the facts. "O.K., I'm a terrible cop. But I'm a skilled cop and I give of my time. For all I know, things work well with Miguel _because_ we can't be together all the time. Meanwhile, all I have that makes an impact on the world is what I do for a living. It's my life's work. And if the result of that is death...." I wondered if it were even possible that she understood where I was coming from. If she could detect the level of obsession I was describing. "I _love_ my job. Without it, I don't know who I am."

"And yet early in this conversation you told me it's your job that put you here. You said you should have quit your job years ago. Surely there are other ways you can share your knowledge and make a positive impact on the world without returning to the NYPD." She stared at her pad and tapped her pen before looking up at me with an expression of concern. "As you describe your thought process, I hear you ruminating on a series of interlocking ideas, circling endlessly in a way that can only lead to depression, delusions or worse if you don't break out of this cycle." She put down her pad and leaned forward earnestly. "I need you to work with me here. I'd like to help you follow your own train of thought as you consider these questions individually and fully. Together, I'd like to see us thoroughly assess your full range of options and embrace some choices that can keep you healthy and functional. I'd like to see you pursue some of these thoughts more completely so you can recognize those that are impractical or self-destructive. You need to make room for some new thoughts and plans and assessments. The question of alternative career choices -- in or outside of New York City -- seems pretty fundamental."

I nodded. "Do you think the world outside the NYPD is concerned with getting the right criminals? Or is the illusion of justice as important to the average Joe as it is to the establishment?" An honest question. No point bouncing that one off of Greg. I needed an answer from someone who could make any of my principles worthwhile, prove they were applicable somewhere.

She looked searchingly at my face. "I think there are many people who are seeking justice that they can't find through the authorities and someone of your intelligence and experience could help them find it. People who are wrongly accused and convicted of crimes, for example. People who may have been victimized -- or have had a family member victimized -- but can't get the authorities to pay attention. There are cases where law enforcement knows they need special expertise and seeks outside help. There are profilers with the FBI. There are other cities who may have police departments that function differently than New York's and where you might make a successful and less frustrating career." She paused. "I'm sure there are teaching possibilities as well, as you mentioned yourself."

"Yeah," I agreed half-heartedly. Something about the conversation was still bothering me. "I don't understand...why you aren't at all interested in that I kept all of this from you?"

She cocked her head to the side. "When you didn't talk about relationships I was left to assume you either had none or didn't care to discuss them. I was betting that you weren't ready to discuss that aspect of your life. It happens. If you want to tell me why you held back, of course I'm interested to hear the reasons. But I'm more interested in the fact that you chose to discuss it today. There must be a reason for that choice, too." she suggested with an encouraging smile.

I frowned. "I expected to get a letter from him today. He usually writes to me. I don't understand...."

Her eyes were full of sympathy. "Given his line of work, are you worried something may have happened to him?"

For a second, I thought my heart stopped.

It was _exactly_ the reason I was so worked up. It was the reason I _always_ panicked when I didn't hear from him. When he didn't answer his phone. I actually smiled while I considered what'd it'd be like to call him from home, to call _his_ home...to stop talking code from pre-pay phone to pre-pay phone. I exhaled. "Yeah. That's it, isn't it?"

"Would you like to try calling him right now?" She asked kindly.

Not even a possibility. "No. Better safe than sorry."

"Did you want to tell me why you didn't talk about Miguel before today?" she asked as though it were the ultimate indulgence to return to my earlier point.

"I thought you'd tell me he was the problem," I answered honestly, directly. "But I know it's an improbable proposition. Sign I'm getting better, I guess."

"Improbable proposition?" She looked confused.

"He never could've had anything to do with me being in here. He wasn't the source of my hallucinations. In fact, they got worse when I sent him away. He's nothing _but_ good for me. I guess I thought you'd jump to a conclusion. Drug dealer equals bad. Now that I'm getting better, I want to figure out how to keep him. And I trust you more than I did anyone six weeks ago." She was right. I had to leave my job.

She beamed at me. "You sounded very sure of what you wanted there. He's nothing but good for you and you want to keep him. If figuring out how to keep him involves leaving a job that may be responsible for your breakdown and if keeping him involves helping him find another line of work, then it sounds like you're pursuing a very positive plan. Is that going to be the basis for our work going forward? Or are you still confused about what you want in those areas?" Pen poised to record our decisions for the day, she looked for my assent.

I shook my head. "I'm not confused. I don't think I ever was. I just wanted a confirmation." I looked at her for a second and cleared my throat. "When do I get my grounds privileges?"

"If things continue as they have been, probably next week."

Longer than was necessary, but at least it was happening soon.

I left ten minutes later, nothing much else said, but the appropriate amount of time spent pretending to say things. I wanted to leave her office and call Miguel, but the trail left behind might lead to serious problems for him. I wondered when our intermediary was next scheduled to work. Whatever the situation, I'd only handed him the note the day before. There were endless possible explanations.

I went back to the room and laid down, thankful for the silence.


End file.
